A Normal Life
by Starwatcher2018
Summary: Post LND (based on my story Ten Long Years). Erik moves forward with his life after the shooting at the pier. As with Ten Long Years, this will likely start out as a series of one-shots which may or may not have a cohesive story line. The story opens a week after the finale of TLY.
1. Chapter 1

No Backward Glances - Erik

"How wonderful it is to be alive." The words escape his damaged lips before he even recognizes the thought that created them. For all the years of his life, he could not recall ever having such a thought – yet here it is – his voice making it a reality.

White organza curtains float in response to the ocean breeze coming though the French doors. The apartment he created for himself in the penthouse of the Phantasma Hotel was reminiscent of the home beneath the Palais Garnier. It had taken some time, picking up the furnishings, art objects and books to replace those he left behind, but in the two years he had this new abode, he felt at home.

The major difference, of course, was the view. He had one now and he relished every moment of sunlight, watching the moon rise, observing the life outside – the sound of the sea particularly stirring and comforting. So different from a manufactured lake. Still the lake gave him comfort, a sense of nature in an unnatural environment unsuitable for life except for the rats and the catfish he stocked there.

The Eyrie was his place of work and creation - tapping into the memories that would not allow him any peace or rest. When he ached to feel like one of the normal people moving about on the street below him, he retreated to this place. This was where he wanted his future life to be acted out – or someplace like it. Normal – whatever that might be – he was still trying to discover the true meaning as it related to him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he supposes Christine inspired this place. Recollections of their times together before everything came crashing down – much like the chandelier that fool Buquet sabotaged. The gaming table where he taught her to play chess. The bedroom filled with as much Louis Phillippe style furniture he could procure. A grand piano and porcelain vases for flowers – now empty, but ready for her, should she come to call. This might be the sort of home Christine and Gustave would like.

The sea was already exhibiting the change of season in the height and power of the waves. The time since the shooting seems to have been ages ago, but only a week has passed. Something else to be grateful for – the water still relatively passive, enabling Nadir to rescue Gustave without having to battle against the fury of the winter storms.

When he envisioned his plan to have Christine come to Phantasma to sing again, he never considered the ramifications – a tendency notable throughout his life. What had Adele called him? Crisis made flesh. Nadir also reminded him of his ability to not think ahead. What had he thought would happen with the reunion he created?

An abrupt laugh escaped the misshapen lips. What thought? The only thought was to get her here – that hunger overrode any real consideration of consequences. Christine would sing. That was the goal. He would hear Christine sing again. If she did not remember their one night together, he would remind her. Then what? He had to admit he had not considered much past those two events. Little did he know how _well _she remembered. She would never forget. Needing no artificial means of recall, however well-constructed the mannequin might be.

Looking past his own desires was not part of his make-up. Taking others' feelings into consideration was abandoned after his earliest ten years - living at the pleasure of a selfish woman's hatred who considered him not at all.

How much of the damage caused to Meg's life was his fault? He was aware of Adele's plans – made some effort to dissuade both women and believed that to be enough. Had he turned into his mother? The thought unnerved him, sending a shiver up his spine. Was his ability to kill a result of her dismissal of his feelings? Would Meg not choose to kill as well? Would not Adele grow to only love money and power – forgetting her softer nature and love for her daughter, if not her affection for him?

As was his wont – he retired to his own space, working on his automata – designing larger and more elaborate attractions and dreaming of Christine. Those dreams preferable to dealing with people – however lonely he might be. They would deal with their lives. Adele happily running Phantasma. Meg dancing and singing – a star. Not the empress he promised she would be that day long ago, but queen of the midway. They would always be comfortable – he assured that – they were entitled to that for they went through together. His heart, however, was not touched as they might have wished. Another lesson from his mother. He could not see, so how could he care?

Christine's release the night of Don Juan Triumphant may have been the first time he actually considered another's sensitivities. Even when he assisted Reza's death, it was to alleviate not only the boy's suffering – but his own, wanting the suffering to end. Reza was perhaps the only person he loved completely since his mother. Whatever hatred he felt toward her – the love for the boy was comparable. Reza's presence in his life eased some of that pain – the boy loved him in return. Still, he might have listened to Nadir's plea to allow just a little more time.

"The boy is suffering, daroga. You are the one being cruel."

Perhaps he might have tempered his words – the man was in his own pain. Discovering he was a father himself, he understood the desire for his friend, for Nadir was his friend – as he now recognized – to hold onto the life of his flesh for as long as he could.

What if Nadir had not been present to save Gustave from the sea – from the madness that overtook sweet Meg, turning her into a potential murderess? He would have wished for his own death at that point. A son. He fathered a son – a beautiful, talented, glorious son. He must rise to the responsibility.

Christine made it clear she needed time. There would be no magical transition from the girl he left behind in Paris to a woman willing to become his wife. There was an existing husband and ten years of marriage to be addressed. The son they conceived was legally the child of that husband. His sole consolation for the moment being Christine's decision to end the façade of that marriage.

"I do not want to hurt you…or him any more than he has been injured by all of this."

"How has he been injured? He seems now, as then, the always selfish prig."

"He has been my husband for ten years, Erik. We have a history – one not always pleasant, but a history nonetheless. I have not been the most ardent wife."

"Because of me?"

"Because of _me_. You certainly played a part, but I made my own choices – not always being fair to Raoul."

"Always kind, my Christine."

"Not always kind and not yours. Not yet anyway."

"I thank God for the _not yet_."

She laughed in that light way she had, looking up at him through her lowered lashes. A new way of communicating with him – with nuances that both thrilled and confused him. Much as he adored her, she was a stranger to him now. How he would love exploring this woman in all ways if she permitted. He would have to trust the _not yet_ meant she was willing to delve deeper into knowing him – the man he was and was hoping to become.

Despite all the years apart and the changes he believed he made within himself, these few days showed him how much he still needed to learn. How had things reached the point that Meg would want to take the life of another – be it Gustave's or his…or worse, her own?

So many lives to consider. So many complications to sort through – make sense of.

Christine and Gustave were the prize and worth the effort. Pandora's Box held all the calamities of the world. He believed he suffered many, if not most of them. When he wrote the letter to secure her performance, it was with a touch of the Hope the Box held. The feeling grew stronger with each day.

So much life took place, so much future to look forward to – or so Erik wanted to believe. There is something about contemplating one's death at a moment in time when life finally seems to be worth living. In past days, he cared little about living or dying. That indifference is likely what protected him. Concern about a situation encourages thought and fear.

Fear often creates hesitation when immediate action is required. Conversely, inappropriate action can assure death. That moment when the gun was directed at his gut, he believed he acted appropriately, but the sound of the blast challenged that belief. Even after a week of turning the event over and over in his mind, he could not recall if he pushed Meg's arm away or if she herself redirected the gun away from him – accidentally shooting her mother. He refused to believe that to be intentional. If she wished anyone dead, it was he.

He recalled his damning Christine when she unmasked him – calling her Pandora and indeed she proved to be. While driven even deeper to his own hellish thoughts, she ultimately brought him a glimmer of what life might be. He would hold onto that hope with both hands.

Pardoned by some grace he was not aware he possessed – he was alive – and grateful to be so. Life was now precious to him. If he could believe this, perhaps miracles did exist.


	2. No Backward Glances - Christine

No Backward Glances - Christine

The scent of the sea invigorates her – the salty, vaguely fishy scent of volatile water – the barest touch of damp on her face flushing her cheeks. The power of the waves rushing to the sand and then returning to the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean touches her soul. Another of those elements in living being both positive and negative. Those same waves that brought about her physical discomfort during their crossing, now soothe the mix of emotions she experienced these past days since arriving at Phantasma.

Raoul would always be associated with the sea in her mind, specifically Perros-Guirec where they first met. Ironic their relationship is ending at a seaside resort. Twenty years for a relationship to come full turn. Their love has taken so many dark turns. This journey proved to be the last straw. Her illness to the still terrifying fact her precious son might have been drowned. The return of her red scarf no longer held much meaning for her before the violence – now it held none. A rash act by a rash young man she once considered romantic – his similar acts after that time wore thin until she wondered why she thought he was being heroic.

How much value she placed on that incident and the scarf. How she attached herself to that young man – so handsome, seemingly gentle and wealthy. A young vicomte smitten with the violinist's daughter. As recently as this week, he attempted to remind her of their early beginnings with his rescue of her scarf. Whenever he felt he was losing an argument or her attention was flagging, the old stories were dredged up as if they had not aged twenty years and were still children building sand castles and telling ghost stories.

Pappa had liked Raoul well enough – he also understood the class system prohibiting any sort of formal relationship between his daughter and the boy. Little did he know how her life would be affected by both his stories of an Angel of Music and how the young vicomte would attempt another sort of rescue – not from the sea, but from the very Angel of Music he sent to her.

There is no doubt in her mind her father sensed a teacher would be there for her – much the same as the fortune teller telling her about a tall dark stranger who would take her to other worlds. The woman was so intense. There was more in her dark eyes than what she expressed with her words. In retrospect, Christine wonders that the woman did not caution her to never sing again. Music being both her blessing and curse was the core message, once she finished describing the man who was her soul partner. Eccentric, brilliant, a musical genius, dramatic…cruel at times, dangerous…passionate. Most particularly passionate. The recollection both thrilled and frightened Christine.

Christine refused to go to fortune tellers after that – when Erik ceased to be a spirit to her and became a real man – she understood so many things. One being that Raoul was not to be a permanent part of her life. When she left with him – the night Erik's mania overruled any reason he may have had – the act was half-hearted. Returning to him was natural as breathing – he was so alive. Yet he sent her away again in a sense – by leaving himself.

Her conversations with Raoul, and there had been many this past week, when viewed in retrospect were all the same – not just for the week, but for their entire time together. So many things unresolved. His desire for another chance was the common theme. The voyage over had its own emotional difficulties – the absence of her special sewing box – the mementos lost forever – was a precursor to the night of Meg's breakdown. Leaving France seemed even more permanent now without them. The loss deeper, an anchor to her past just gone.

For ten years she lived in limbo, waiting for Erik to somehow return to her…then the letter came – the offer to sing in America. Her breath hitches at this realization – she knew then she would not be returning. Despite a deep knowing coming to consciousness – there was still an element of surprise.

The offer to sing in New York for an outrageous sum – coincidently an amount that would restore Raoul's finances to a relatively normal state – raised her suspicions about who might have been behind the offer. Fantasy, however, was part and parcel to Christine's way of coping with life – she gladly went along with the charade about Oscar Hammerstein.

A vague hope fed her – even with her refusal to bring it to life – she viewed the journey to this Coney Island with combined anticipation and dread. Despite the exhilaration, nagging thoughts of danger danced at the outer edges of her consciousness. Only in her dreams would she allow herself to think of Erik – to remember the tumult and beauty he brought to her and what experiences he might create just by his pure existence – forget any actual plans he might have in mind.

During daylight hours those thoughts were put aside – the trip planned, the vocal exercises remembered from those practice sessions so long ago, memorizing the song without really delving into the meaning. No performance practice – only rote vocalizing and memorization. The butterflies that had taken up residence in her chest the only reminder of those nighttime scenarios.

In spite of herself, she laughed out loud. "Oh, Erik – you are impossible." Despite his best efforts – how could anything but chaos exist? That was his essence. Could she live with that? Could she have her son…his son…live with the man who was Erik? How had she lived without him?

God help her, she still loved him – wanted him even more than that night when she stole back to the Palais Garnier, risking what she believed was the safety of Raoul's love. Raoul's love…the hope of his love still lingering in a corner of her heart – challenging the fear knotting inside her at the risk of staying here accepting the full power of Erik's feelings for her.

Raoul's promises fell on deaf ears, though. She could not recall a time when Raoul was not trying to control her in some way – never taking her seriously. More than that, though, he never changed – the blame always fell on her or, in some instances on Gustave.

Raoul's interest in Gustave was always limited – held back. At times she believed he suspected Gustave was not his child, but as time went on – when she did not conceive again, he seemed relieved. Parenting was not a skill he took to – the more attention she gave the boy – the more aggrieved he became.

Throughout each of their discussions – Raoul never mentioned the boy – his feelings if any – how Gustave might react to no longer having Raoul in his life. Of course, if Christine returned to Paris with him, the boy would come along – that was as far as he would commit to caring for the boy he called son for ten years.

He absented himself from any of the activities she or the Trio created to help the boy deal with his trauma. Trips to the beach, encouraging him to play in the waves, teaching him to swim. Squelch, in particular, with his size, gave Gustave the confidence to learn. Nothing could go wrong with Squelch there to protect him. Had Raoul shown even a modicum of concern, her decision might have been more difficult. Instead she found herself grateful he made her choice so easy in the end.

No, she would not be returning to France. Finally, last evening, he grudgingly agreed to grant her a divorce. It would create a scandal for her – but, as Erik explained, half joking, it would create a larger audience. Her beauty and her voice, a life tinged with the faintest bit of scarlet would attract drove of followers.

"But Gustave."

"He will be loved. What questions he asks will be answered."

"I could not bear his being hurt."

"Which is worse – a father and mother who adore him, but whose reputations are far from pure – or what you both experienced these past ten years?"

"He does adore you as well."

"So, it is settled?"

"Yes. If Raoul feels the need to drag me through the mud – I suppose I can deal with that. My concern has always been for Gustave – what is best for him."

"You believe that to be here – with me? With us?"

'Yes."

His embrace at her response was so intense, she was startled. Despite their night of intimacy or even the passion of their kiss after her performance, he kept his distance, reminding her of the night of Don Juan Triumphant – afraid to touch her – uncomfortable when she embraced him. As if reading her mind, he pulled away. "I am sorry. I…"

"I want your touch, Erik."

The amber eyes examined her, slightly hooded, she saw doubt there. "You are certain?"

"Not like that night – not now. I must get to know you again – who you are now," she said, touching his cheek. "You must learn who I am as well. I must learn who I am. But, yes, I want your touch and your presence. I want you to be a father to our son. He needs a father."

Acknowledging this truth allayed some of the questions she had about what his relationship may have been with Meg. There was nothing more than he said there was – she felt certain of that. For all the sophistication and intelligence he presented, he was still shy, uncomfortable with physical contact, reminding her of a puppy who had been mistreated and, although wanting affection, was cautious and fearful.

Could her old friend have been so deluded, so needy to believe Erik might love her…after so much time experiencing his rejection? So obsessed she would consider killing. Why not? Erik had been in such a state. Yet, he released Raoul, told them to leave. How different things might have been without her prayer for compassion. She gained their freedom – to what end – she wanted to stay at that point.

What a strange lot they were. None of them normal – how could one be normal growing up and living as they have? Vagabonds, all of them. Poor Raoul was the most normal by societal standards and he was so desperately sad. Well, he would have to deal with that himself, she had given him ten years of chances. The agreement to divorce lifted a weight from her heart. Freedom – at last.

At some point, she would come to terms with Meg's behavior, feel some compassion, perhaps even forgiveness – but not now. Helping Gustave deal with the terror he experienced at her hands was the priority. However betrayed Meg may have felt, to wish harm to an innocent child – her child – was something she could not understand. Attack Erik. Attack me. Of course, that was the idea – to hurt both of us – but not in such a way. So much to learn…to understand. For the moment, however, her sympathies lie with her son – who did not deserve the terror he experienced.

Erik kept apologizing. Madame kept apologizing. The Trio. Even kind Nadir kept apologizing. But they did not commit the act. The sight of Meg throwing her hand into the air…Gustave losing his balance, falling off the pier. Meg preventing Erik from diving in after him. M. Khan taking charge. Raoul doing nothing. Those images would flash through her mind over and over – unlikely to ever entirely fade. Perhaps she could have considered it an accident, but the remark about being the best way to learn to swim…Meg's intention was Gustave drown. In that moment, her heart turned. How Meg became a monster was no one's fault but her own. Pappa taught her that people must be responsible for their own actions – life is full of choices – small to large.

All these mental meanderings lead her back to Erik. Raoul never hesitated to call him a monster – she supposed she could not blame him, he had not experienced Erik the teacher, the friend – the person Erik was to her before his life was threatened. Still, Raoul initiated the plan to kill Erik. Neither man was correct in his actions – but was Raoul less a monster than Erik that night?

Even she, in the quietest of moments, wanted to hurt Meg – to see her suffer, perhaps die. Only being able to hold her son, filling his need for comfort kept her from acting in a way she might regret. Still, she felt the rage smoldering deep within. So who are the real monsters – one never knows when hate can poison a heart? How this journey has changed her.

Time would heal much – life had shown her that to be the case. Living with truth would aid the healing. Letting go of the dead past was a start. Gustave was alive. Her music was alive. Her soul was alive. Love surrounded her and she felt blessed for that. She was home at last.

Breathing deeply of the cool fresh air, she closes the French doors. A light knock on the door to the suite brings a smile to her face. "Come in." The smile grows as Erik enters.

"You are comfortable?"

Nodding, she walks to him with open arms. "Pappa would have loved it here."


	3. I Remember

Chapter 3 – I Remember

The fading sun casts shadows through the floor to ceiling windows of the Grand Ballroom. Anyone wishing to take a break from dancing could take in the panoramic view of the ocean and enjoy a cocktail. No longer crowded with summer bathers – fall was definitely in the air and indoor entertainment was preferable – the winds gusts coming off the Atlantic create dunes on the vacant beach.

Despite the early hour, a large number of couples take advantage of the full orchestra playing the newest songs – along with old favorites. Although many of the attractions are closed due to colder weather, people never tire of dancing, often coming in from the other boroughs and out-of-state, keeping the hotel and restaurant busy all year round.

_By the light of the silvery moon,_

_I want to spoon, to my honey I'll croon love's tune,_

_Honeymoon keep a-shining in June,_

_Your silvery beams will bring love dreams, we'll be cuddling soon,_

_By the silvery moon._

Erik sings the lyrics softly in Christine's ear as they dance in a private room behind the main dance floor. "It is a duet," he tells her. "You just repeat the phrases. _By the light…_now you."

"_By the light…"_

"_Of the silvery moon…"_

"_Of the silvery moon…"_

"_I want to spoon."_

Christine has trouble restraininh her laughter.

"What? You were doing fine."

"I do not believe I have ever seen you so…"

"So?"

"Relaxed. Happy. I cannot explain it."

"Ever since you arrived, I have been accused of not being myself. Of being happy."

"So all of this good cheer is my fault?"

"If you think it a fault – then let it be a fault," he says. "Is it so terrible?"

"It is wonderful."

"Are you happy?"

"More than I should be considering what has happened this past week. My life…Gustave's life – I suppose everyone's lives have been turned upside down."

"You are feeling guilty?"

"A little."

"_to my honey I'll croon love's tune._ Do not feel guilty for being happy. You deserve nothing but happiness."

"You are prejudiced, I think."

"True enough – but that does not mean I am wrong." Pulling her closer to him, he spins around to the closing bars of the song.

_Your silvery beams will bring love dreams, we'll be cuddling soon,_

_By the light of the moon._

Christine tilts her head back, gazing into Erik's eyes. "I love you, you know."

"Do you?"

"I do."

"What does daroga mean?" Gustave asks, wiping his lips on the heavy linen napkin before tossing it on the small dining table.

"Sheriff," Nadir replies, following suit with his own napkin, stacking his plate on top of Gustave's, folding the napkins, putting the lot to one side on the table before leaning back, examining the boy. His hazel eyes a blend of his mother's green and father's amber, hair chestnut like Christine's – most everything about him physically, a replica of her.

From the little he knew of the paternity situation and the circumstances surrounding Gustave's conception, he suspected this was a good thing for both the woman and boy. Erik confided little, so Nadir pieced together what he heard rumored about the purported kidnapping of the soprano and the death of the Phantom while he still lived in Paris. Had he not known Erik in Persia and his aversion to physical communion of any sort, he might have assumed the prankster raped the much younger woman.

As life would have it, though, he did know Erik, and understood how women were attracted to him. The little Sultana had been positively obsessed. Mlle. Giry seemed so as well. This led him to suspect an amicable seduction – likely initiated by the girl. Erik's adoration was plain to see, yet, he was reticent in his behavior to la Daae. A touch or act of comfort halted as if fearful of rejection. For her part, the lady was more than willing to take his arm or touch his cheek. Erik always acting mildly amazed when she showed such affection. What happened after their assignation or assignations, he did not fully understand, only knowing Christine married the Vicomte and Erik came to America.

What Erik did reveal was Gustave bore elements of his own deformities concealed by his hair. The boy's talent was less easy to hide, but was explained by Christine's gifts and the talent of her late father.

Gustave was more than talented though and, even at his young age, Nadir saw much of Erik in the child's intelligence and personality. No mild temperament here – feisty, with a quick mind and a quick tongue to boot. Somewhat subdued now, since his abduction and threat to his life. Thankfully, he would not suffer the same fate as his father – the act was an anomaly and not something he would have to deal with on a daily basis. He was surrounded by love and acceptance.

His Reza was a gentler soul – like his mother…like Gustave's mother – kind and forgiving, but with a will of steel. He saw that in Erik's Christine. What must she have endured when he left…abandoned her? Of course he was not aware of any potential obstacles she would face when he left. If anything, he likely believed he was doing something to help her. They seem to have worked that out – or were working on a resolution.

He was pleased they trusted him to spend the evening with the boy when he insisted they have an evening to themselves. There was comfort in being able to reciprocate the care Erik gave Reza. Each morning he awoke praising Allah that he was present to save Gustave. This reunion was fated, of that he had no doubt.

"In Persia? Did you know Papa Y there? Is that where you met? Was he a sheriff, too?"

Nadir laughs. "No." He hoped the boy never knew what sort of person his father was in days past. "He was an entertainer." Keeping his comments limited – not wishing to create any more problems in the already distressed situation.

"How did you know him then?"

"We both worked at the palace of the Shah and became acquainted."

"How?"

How indeed, perceptive young man? Telling him I brought him to Persia from Russia at the Shah's order – then aided in his imprisonment and ordered to kill him when he became a risk? "You will find out yourself, if you do not know already, that Erik is well versed in medicine and healing. I had a son…Reza…who was ill and your Papa Y became good friends with Reza and helped him feel better."

"Does Reza live with you? He is older than me, but maybe we could be friends…"

"Reza was ill, as I said. Erik was with me when Reza died," Nadir says, his eyes glassy with tears. "Soon after, Erik left Persia."

Gustave opens his mouth to ask a question, pausing when he notices the sadness evident on the daroga's face. Reaching a hand across the table, he pats the older man's hand. "I am sorry Reza died."

"Yes. He was a good boy."

"Papa Y left after that?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"The Shah became angry with him and we both thought it best he go somewhere else."

"That is so sad."

"Very. I missed him when he left. So much I kept one of his masks as a remembrance."

The boy grows pensive, pulling his knees to his chest, resting his heels on the edge of the chair.

"Is there something you want to talk about, Gustave?"

"How old was Reza?"

"He was ten."

Gustave's head snaps up. "Like me."

"Like you. Yes."

"I almost died."

"That was possible, I must admit, but unlikely. No one was going to allow you to be harmed." Taking in the room, he asks, "Do you have drawing paper and pencils or pens?"

"Here, in the desk." He retrieves the supplies and carries them to the table.

"Do you recall anything?"

"I dream about falling and being cold – then I wake up. After a while I fall back to sleep. Papa Y asks but everything is all black."

"Sit down and draw what you do remember. It does not have to be pretty or perfect, just move the pencil around on the paper."

Nadir folds his arms across his chest and watches the boy first frown, then begin making abstract markings on the paper. Left-handed like his father. Little things. Nightmares. Maybe this technique would work. The drawing begins to take shape, Gustave concentrating on the pencil seeming to move on its own.

Gustave stops, pushing the paper at Nadir. "Mlle. Meg did not push me – I stumbled and fell when she let me go."

Nadir examines the sketch – it reflects his own memory of the event, except in Gustave's picture, Meg has already turned away from him when he falls from the pier, his feet tangled in something…a piece of rope, some netting possibly.

"This is excellent work," Nadir says. "Draw some more if you will."

Gustave begins applying himself to the pictures. His work becomes more intense as he draws and speaks at the same time.

"I was so afraid," his own eyes fill with tears. "Falling. I lost my breath. Hitting the water – it was hard. I did not think water was hard. It hurt. It was dark and cold. I did not know what to do. The water was so strong…pulling me down. I tried to raise my arms, but they were heavy. Then I got water in my mouth – it was bitter…salty." The words pouring from his mouth become sobs.

Nadir rises from his chair, he kneels on the floor in front of Gustave and wraps his arms around him. "That is enough for now."

"I heard a splash. Then a voice."

"And then you kicked your legs, and moved your arms and took in a deep breath…"

"And then…"

"You were out of the water."

"Why was Mlle. Meg mad at me and Papa Y?"

"Only she knows the answer to that."

The giggles coming from sitting room have Christine and Erik exchange a look of both surprise and pleasure as they open the door to her flat. Although his recovery from the physical shock of falling into the darkness of the sea was coming along – his memory loss affected his natural sense of fun. The ebullient child had withdrawn. Both agreed it would take time, but Christine especially wants her child back – the child too young to have to face his own death and the possible violent deaths of others.

Rather than unsettle Gustave any more than he was already, the suite they used when first arriving at Phantasma was converted into an apartment. Christine insisted on a small kitchen – stating flatly and firmly that restaurant food was fine for vacations, but not for everyday life.

"You can cook?" Erik queried, an eyebrow raised, a tiny smirk creasing his face. In the times when she stayed with him in his house below the opera house, there was never a hint of skill, much less interest, in preparing food.

"A few things." The tone only moderately defensive. "Eggs, sandwiches."

"And you expect to live on that limited a diet."

"I shall learn. I need to do things for myself and Gustave. "

"Well, in the meantime, utilize the hotel kitchen as much as you like or I can prepare dinners for the three of us."

"Or you could teach me."

"Or I could teach you."

"Maman, M. Khan has taught me a trick," Gustave races to the door, waving a sheaf of papers, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Eyeing Nadir, who salutes him – tapping his fingers to his forehead, Erik says, "And what trick might that be?"

"He asked me a question about the night I fell into the water…"

"What?" Christine exclaims with a sharp look at Nadir.

"If I may explain…"

"No, Maman, it is all right – let me," Gustave grabs her hand, pulling her, seating them both on the settee.

"Go on, Gustave," Erik says, nodding to Christine. "I think I know this trick."

"You know how I could not remember anything?"

"Yes."

"So, I drew some pictures and started to remember," he says, tossing the papers on the coffee table.

Erik and Christine each pick up a drawing. One contains a sketch of the pier, Meg and the others. Another shows Gustave falling into the water.

"I started drawing and the pictures are what happened." His eyes darken momentarily, shifting to each of the adults, one by one.

Nadir gives him a gentle smile.

"You were laughing…" Christine says.

"Mr. Khan told me I made the pencil magical," he laughs. "Pencils cannot be magic…can they?"

"If the right person is using the pencil for drawing…or writing music," Christine says, tousling Gustave's hair, casting a glance at Erik.

"We were so proud of you," Erik says.

Gustave puffs up with pride. "I also learned how to swim a little bit. Now Mr. Squelch's lessons are helping. I love swimming. I knew I would."

"Sounds worthy of a macaron, I would think," Erik says.

"Maman?"

"Two – no more."

The boy jumps up and runs to the small kitchen, disappearing behind the curtain.

"Two?"

"He will likely take three – just like his mother," Christine says. "Where did you learn that – about drawing pictures?"

"It occurred to me that he was thinking too hard. If I am struggling with solving a crime, I draw…not as well as Gustave…my sketches are quite rudimentary…but my scribbling will often reflect something I missed or forgot. I hoped it would help Gustave."

"It seemed to work," Christine says. "Although I am still concerned about what happened with Meg." Turning to Erik, she says, "You seemed to know what M. Khan was trying to do."

"Shall I – or do you want to explain?" Erik asks Nadir.

"My wife died shortly after giving birth to our son – Reza."

"I am so sorry," Christine says. "Is he here with you – in New York?"

Nadir's eyes once again fill with tears, as he shakes his head. "Reza was a sickly child. He…died when he was just about Gustave's age."

Erik continues the story. "Reza felt he was responsible for his mother's death and refused to fight his own illness. We encouraged him to remember his mother in whatever way he could."

"He created a life with her through his drawings – he drew pictures of her parents and our wedding based on her stories," Nadir takes up the narrative. "After he drew the pictures, he wrote down some of the stories." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out some worn pieces of paper. "I carry some of them with me – to help me remember. Too much time passes and forgetfulness sets in."

"Reza started to get better – not a lot, but he began to want to live."

"I wish you still had him," Christine says.

"Yes."

"He did not suffer in his dying?"

Nadir and Erik exchange a look Christine cannot identify. Who was this man? There was so much about Erik she did not know. Would he share these stories?

"No," Nadir says, "he did not suffer." Rising to his feet, he asks, "Might I have one of those macarons?"

"Of course," Christine says, jumping up, calling over her shoulder, "I shall make some fresh tea and see if there are any treats left."

Nadir returns to his seat. "He will be fine, I think."

"Thank you. I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for Gustave."

"I am happy I was here to help – our lives do tend to be entwined." Nadir leans back into the armchair. "Did you ever draw any pictures for yourself?

Erik quirks an eyebrow.

"But you do create – besides the music…I have had a chance to see your automata. Some are the stuff of nightmares."

"So you answer your own question."

"It took you this long…"

"As you say, I have my music – although what I thought was my masterpiece was almost the cause of my destruction."

"Yet, here you are – happy – or so it appears."

"There are still numerous issues…" Erik looks through the pictures Gustave tossed on the table.

"Mlle. Giry?"

"Meg's issues will not be so easily resolved."

"If at all – but she is being cared for?"

"Yes," Erik says, holding up the drawings, he says, "These are quite good."

"He takes after his father, it would seem." Nadir takes a few of the prints. "There are doctors now who can treat mental illnesses."

"Yes, Adele will handle that. It is best I keep my distance…and Christine…"

"Then you are serving her well. When someone is in mental pain, they must be cared for."

"Something your faith teaches?"

"Yes."

"What you did for me?"

"As best I could – you were not much interested in being cared for, though."

"Now I not only owe you my life, but that of my son."

"Who wants macarons?" Christine asks, carrying a tray with a teapot and a plate of cookies on it from the kitchenette.

"I would accept a macaron as payment in full."

"That might serve for my life, but Gustave is worth much more."

In response to the sound of his name, the boy runs to Erik, flopping down where his mother had been sitting, and takes his father's hand. The action takes Erik aback, he looks at Gustave's hands with a sense of what one might call wonder. The act was so natural for the child – touching in such a loving way. Not second guessing whether that touch would be welcomed or rebuffed.

"Did you know that M. Khan missed you when you left Persia?"

"Your papa does have a way of leaving places suddenly." Christine says, placing the tray on the coffee table and serves the tea.

"Did you keep anything when Papa Y left France?"

Christine's eyes meet Erik's. "I did."

"M. Khan did, too."

"Each of you kept something of mine?"

"If you have to leave me, can I have your violin?"

Erik squeezes his hand. "I shall not be leaving you any time soon, but, yes, you may have my violin."

"Pappy Y, you are crying."

"Just a little," Erik says.

"Then you must have a macaron," Gustave says. "Maman says macarons are the best things in the world for when you cry."

"Then I will have a macaron," Erik replies. "I would not argue anything with your mother."

"Smart man," Christine says, offering the plate of cookies to Erik and Nadir. "You are learning."

"One can only hope. I shall do my best."


	4. All I Want Is Freedom

All I Want is Freedom

"I shall see you in the morning," Erik says, kissing Christine's hand taking in the softness of her skin and the scent of gardenia – the fragrance so much a part of her.

Not satisfied with the gesture, she pulls him forward, kissing him on the lips.

He bows his head, glancing to his side at Nadir who waits for him in the hallway, back turned, seemingly oblivious to the intimate gesture.

Christine follows his gaze and laughs lightly before kissing him again. "One for Gustave." With a pat on his cheek, she closes the door, leaving him mildly stunned, staring at the closed door with a grin on his face some might call foolish.

Nadir clears his throat.

Erik shakes his body from shoulder to toe, recovering the stately, calm demeanor he has trained himself to portray when in public. A quick straightening of his collar and lapels and he is prepared to face his old friend…was that the correct word? Friend? Nadir Khan played so many roles in his life, friend seemed at once too much and too little.

Years ago he led him into a situation that allowed him extraordinary creative freedom building a palace not only beautiful but almost magical with secret passages and rooms, but also fed the evil threatening to negate his tenuous humanity. Serving in the court of the Persian shah came close to costing him his physical life, not before receiving a level of torture that put the gypsies to shame.

The upshot – Nadir would save him – not only his wretched body, but his soul. One of the few humans in his life to show him compassion. He could almost hate him for injecting just enough love into his heart to prevent its turning into nothing more than a lump of coal.

Tonight he helped healing of his son. They were indeed bound. Friend would have to do as a description. Sometimes language is insufficient to describe what is in your heart.

"We have not had much of an opportunity to speak alone – the two of us," Erik says. "Perhaps a glass of wine – or do you continue to adhere to your religious beliefs?"

"I wish I could be so pure," Nadir responds, "a glass of wine would be most welcome."

Nadir surveys the sitting room, his eyes immediately drawn to the French doors leading to the balcony. The drapes are open and the lights on the boardwalk complement the glow of the moon, playing on the waves rolling in. "Cozy."

"Yes, I know the décor does not match the man you knew…what is it now…a quarter century ago," Erik says in response to the quizzical look on the daroga's face. "I furnished my home beneath the Opera House…"

"_Beneath_ the Opera House?"

"Another story for another time, it is too much to recount at this late hour – if I were a novelist, it would make an intriguing book. Perhaps I should write an opera," Erik laughs. "The furniture is reminiscent of the home in which I was born – I inherited it when my mother died. Strangely enough I found it comforting, so recreated it here. Please sit – the loveseat is quite comfortable."

Nadir sips his wine. "Excellent."

"A Merlot. I have it, along with other delicacies, shipped to me from France."

"Singers, too?"

The barest of frowns crosses Erik's brow, a flush rises from his neck to his face. "In another lifetime I would have your head for that comment."

"We both suffer from a quick tongue," Nadir says. "I apologize. Neither of you deserved that."

Erik grunts, taking a sip of wine, he leans back into the red velvet armchair.

Christine. If only it had been so simple. How many internal arguments did he have with himself about returning to France? About writing to her directly, throwing himself on her mercy. He had nothing to offer her other than himself...a poor gift indeed. Her presence here now – of her own choice still confuses him. Her words tonight still ring in his mind – I love you – thrilling, but, as yet difficult to believe.

"I suppose you are correct in a sense. I offered a very large sum of money to her husband to bring her here to sing."

"Your plan – whatever it was appears to have succeeded."

"I had no plan, daroga," Erik says. "When did you know me to have a plan? But, her presence and the child…"

"Time has finally rewarded you for all you suffered."

"I am not so sure I deserve the reward."

"The universe seems to disagree with your assessment," Nadir says. "Allah demands recompense when one has sinned, neither does he offer unearned rewards."

"Those of the East call it karma." Erik rises to retrieve the wine bottle, topping their glasses. "You were in Paris – when Don Juan Triumphant premiered?"

"I was not there that night. I was away."

"Her voice…but more than her voice – her entire being…"

"Yes – all those elements were…are in her performances. That is what had me travel to Coney Island – to hear her sing again."

"Did you know I was the so-called Opera Ghost?"

"The stories circulated after the events of that night," Nadir says. "As someone who was only a member of the audience, I was not aware of the actual occurrences. I often worked with the police and heard most of the story afterward."

"I find it odd you did not look further – particularly when you heard about the masked Phantom."

"Only after," Nadir replies, setting his glass on the table.

"Another?"

"No. I needed a bit of wine to wash down the sweetness of the cookies – I am partial to almond and honey cakes. Even with my sweet tooth, the macarons are a bit much."

"Christine is addicted to them – our baker is overjoyed to indulge her…her charms have already made themselves known throughout the hotel and the theater," he chuckles. "So, how long were you in Paris?"

"Not long, a year."

"He imprisoned you."

Nadir nods. "Not immediately – at first my goods were confiscated – my position taken from me – although I continued to work as a deputy."

"But that was not enough?"

Nadir shakes his head. "The idea of betrayal festered. Although you were believed dead – he wondered why you had not finished me off. No fool, he," he snickers. "You were too well known to him. Well enough to think you would be certain I was dead from your garrote."

Unconsciously, Erik's hand moves to his waistcoat, fingers assuring the tightly looped strand of gut is secure in his pocket. With the exception of his burst of anger at Adele, the idea of using the Punjab lasso has not arisen since Paris. Violence was something he left behind.

Nevertheless, the Persian's words recalled his own experience with having the thin wire wrapped around his own neck by the thuggee as part of his training. Even though he had only killed once – it was with a knife – bloody, messy and inefficient.

When he stumbled upon the thuggee – or rather, when they discovered him, playing his violin with a traveling fair – fascinated by his deformity, yet capable of making music with an instrument using the same type of catgut they used for killing.

For his part, Erik appreciated the aesthetic of being able to strangle someone before they were even aware of being attacked. Some of the thuggee preferred using the lasso as a garrote, but Erik found a certain power by a keeping his distance – maintaining the ability to observe his victim's face in the hope of seeing the soul escape. There was also a certain artistry to controlling the lasso as it was thrown – a beauty in how the wire was held, how much the wrist should flick, how the fingers let go at just the precise moment for the greatest effect.

The leader admired his will and agreed to teach him – one lesson involved bringing Erik as close to death as possible without him dying. For Erik, if they failed and he died, it mattered little. But, of course, the master, his teacher, brought him to the edge – no further.

The sting of the wire was the first sensation. Then gagging – an inability to breath. His hands instinctively reached for his neck, fingertips hardened from years of play evaded damage, but that mattered little – there was no gap for them to enter. When the lasso was released, his hunger for air precluded anything else. Nausea overwhelmed him – the contents of his stomach left on the dirt beneath his head as he heaved repeatedly, finally calming the racing of his heart. The cold-blooded thuggee appeared shocked at the smile breaking across Erik's face as he recovered himself. Killing would become another of his talents.

"But he let you go?"

"I escaped – some of my officers, one in particular, Darius, assisted me when the shah was on one of his political journeys."

"Money?"

"I had the jewels you left for me – hidden just where you said they would be."

Erik chuffs, "Hardly enough to compensate for imprisonment and torture, but at least a means to begin again. Darius is with you?"

Nadir nods. "I could not leave him behind."

"Why not stay in Paris?"

A large Persian community sprang up there – very political, most were opposed to the Shah, but I could not be certain. I began hearing things – rumors. My connection with the police afforded me certain privileges. A tale was being circulated about a deformed man with an extraordinary singing voice, who built the shah's palace, and the daroga who may have helped the architect escape."

"By whom?"

"Darius discovered the master of the harem eunuchs was connected to a gambling ring operating out of a café on the Rue Rivoli."

"Hareem?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps I might have evaded his interest, but Paris is just a large village. Too much gossip. I was too visible. So Darius and I came here."

"With your drawings?"

Nadir chuckles. "They helped."

"But did not heal – I know," Erik says. "I am sorry for your scars – I am certain there are many."

"It was my choice to help you."

"Why I shall never know."

"You know," Nadir says. "If you did not know before – you have only to look at your son."

"Gustave."

Nadir shrugs. "I never regretted my choice," he says, holding up his glass. "Perhaps I will have a little more wine."

Christine gazes down at the face of her son. So pure and innocent – damaged by irrational hatred. Tears form in her eyes. Too close – he came too close to being taken from her. This being was her salvation since his birth – easing her loneliness, giving her joy with his spirit and sense of fun. Seeing him with Erik reminded her of what might have been, but also what was possible. All his efforts this past week were directed toward healing Gustave – showering him with affection and attention to developing his gifts.

How different it was for his father – rejected by his mother. She would gladly have given her life to spare Gustave's. Whenever she allows herself to revisit the night of Don Juan Triumphant, the words about his mother tear at her.

Still, he had made a friend during the tangle of his life before she met him. The appearance of the Persian appearing by some saving grace to rescue his son was nothing short of a miracle. From their conversation, this was also revisiting an event from the past. Erik somehow saving Reza – Nadir's boy. Would she ever learn all there was to the man she first knew as her Angel of Music? As a man, he remains a virtual stranger. The risk she is taking by remaining in America is not lost on her.

"Oh, Pappa, how I wish you were here to guide me."

"Maman?"

"Gustave, darling, I am sorry I woke you."

"I was dreaming."

"One of your bad dreams?"

He shakes his head. "I was on the beach with you and Papa Y."

"And were we happy?"

"Yes. Papa Y was showing us magic tricks and you were laughing so hard."

"Well, then we shall keep that dream under your pillow and leave the others behind," she says, fluffing said pillow under his head.

"Maman?"

"Yes."

"I like it here. I like Papa Y and Mr. Khan. The Trio are fun, too."

"I like it here, too."

"Are we going to stay?"

"Would you like that?" she asks, discontinuing the straightening of his bedclothes, to sit back and take in what he was saying. It occurs to her his feelings about the situation with Raoul have not been addressed. The question about her own needs and desires taking the forefront in her mind. Where she went – so he would go.

"Pere asked me if I wanted to go back to France."

"I see." A rush of adrenaline upsets her stomach, she swallows hard to push down the bile rising in her throat. Would Raoul insist on taking him? Until this moment, the idea of Raoul actually asserting paternal privilege never crossed her mind. The topic of Gustave has not been a part of their discussions…arguments. They have spoken more this past week than they have in years. Which only increased her desire to stay.

Erik was part of the reason, of course, but there was more to the attraction. Here she could be herself – not a sorry imitation of a noble woman – forget the pretense of singing for charity – the whispers and snide comments meant for her to overhear about Raoul's proclivities and references to her roots.

"He said he had to go back and he wanted us to go with him."

"What did you say?"

"I told him I liked it here and wanted to stay, but I wanted him to stay, too."

"When was this?"

"Yesterday. We took a walk. I showed him where I was learning to swim."

Raoul should have taught him to swim – all those summers at Perros – yet he never took his son into the sea. Not his son. He had to know, but never said. Thinking back, Raoul never went into the water himself during those trips. Had he lost his love for everything he once lovedl? Had his role as head of the de Chagny family stolen his the one thing he loved…besides her? Did he love her?

So much of his connection to her was the red scarf. The story of his racing into the sea to retrieve her red scarf entered every argument – his last happy memory of the two of them together. Their few months together in Paris were haunted by Erik – whether devil, angel or man – he was part of their relationship.

"He did not offer to teach you?"

"Does he know how to swim?

"Once he did."

"But he did not come after me when I fell."

She wondered at that herself. Mr. Squelch was holding her back, but Raoul simply stood and watched – an observer of a play – distancing himself. Shock or simply ennui? "No. Perhaps he forgot how."

As was often the case when Raoul was a topic of conversation, Gustave's face would grow tight, the light would leave his eyes and he grew mute. What had he said when I told him to look with his heart – Raoul did not love him.

"What did he say when you asked him to stay?"

"He told me that his life was in France – that perhaps it was best I live with my new father for a while."

"I see."

"Did I say the right thing? He seemed sad."

"You told him the truth – the truth is always the right thing."

"Do you want to live here?"

"I believe I do."

"Then everything is okay?"

"I suppose it is." Christine smooths his hair from his forehead. "You have had a very exciting week, we must plan a special farewell for Pere, but in the morning. Go to sleep now."

"Maman."

Christine sighs. "What is it? You really must get some sleep. Too much excitement, I fear."

"He is gone. He left this morning. He told me not to tell you."

"Gustave, you should have said something."

"He said to wait until tomorrow to tell you. Just to say he loved us both and to tell you not to worry. He would write when he got back home."

She kisses him on the cheek. "There are times I wish you were not so honorable."

"Are you angry?" His brow furrows. "He made me promise."

"No, not angry. Just sad. Like Pere." Kissing him on the cheek, she says, "Go back to sleep – to your sweet dreams."

Christine tucks the blankets around him and with another kiss, walks from the room, leaving the door ajar in the event of another nightmare. Once in the hallway, she presses herself against the wall, hugging herself, allowing the tears to fall.

This was wrong, but what was the right way to end a marriage? I suppose I should be grateful – there was nothing more to say. Still, I should like to have said good-bye. "Oh, Raoul. My sweet boy. I am sorry. So very, very sorry."


	5. You, Always Beside Me

"I must find work." The words escape her lips before Christine considers how they might be met by Erik. Gustave excused himself for one of his lessons with one of the Trio – she was not certain which or what he was learning, but his spirits were high and the bad dreams were diminishing in number. This left her and Erik alone, sipping the remains of their morning tea at the small round table set aside for dining in Erik's penthouse apartment at the Phantasma Hotel.

Breakfast together became routine for the little family – Christine and Gustave arriving promptly at nine to the aroma of bacon and eggs, or cinnamon buns or maple syrup warming to drizzle on a stack of hotcakes. Despite her best efforts, the small kitchen set up in the flat a floor below, learning to cook was nigh on impossible. Thus, morning and evening meals were taken with Erik – luncheon was left to each of their own design.

The simplicity of daily life is Christine's greatest challenge. Gustave busy with the excitement of his new friends and surroundings. Erik to his work – composing, designing, dealing with the everyday business of the park. Although closed for the season, work was carried on with repairs and building new attractions. For her part, Christine has yet to find a way to fill her days.

In their own ways, they were becoming known to one another. A natural affection is there, but the truth of the matter – they are virtual strangers. Despite the deep love they feel – Christine has no doubt she made the correct choice staying in New York – nevertheless, her relationship with Erik was formed despite or, perhaps, because of, great drama and heartache. As life would have it – the same is the case for Gustave. They were all wading through the calm after the storm.

Erik has taken to spending time with Gustave when he was crawling under the covers – telling him stories of Russia, India and particularly Persia – mostly about music or architecture or culture – often singing a song from places she assumes he visited over the passage of his life from the time he ran away from his mother's house, to the journey here in New York.

The tales are full of color and adventure – almost as if the map of scars on his body she felt on his body that night so long ago did not exist and his travels were the lark of a free and happy young man.

He would sit on the edge of the bed, holding the boy's hand – a habit he took up in these times before bed or walking down the street – the touch a comfort to both of them, for if Erik did not take Gustave's hand the boy would seek his.

During these bedtime visits, she would sit in the armchair next to the window and simply watch the two of them, enjoying the stories, learning about this multi-faceted man she loved. Her heart filled with joy at their bond – happy they were all together – grateful for this to be her life now. Her son and her angel- turned-man.

"You do not have to work," Erik replies, stacking the plates that held their breakfasts, before standing to carry them to the kitchen.

"Let me," she rises as well, taking the china from him, leaving him to follow her to the small kitchen. "At some point you must allow me to at least attempt to provide a meal for the two of you…in _my_ kitchen, such as it is."

"I enjoy taking care of the two of you – starting the day with you here with me," he says, taking up a towel to dry the dishes as she places them on the drain board. "I have never had anyone to care for and I find I am enjoying it – trying to make up for what I missed."

"Much of my life has been spent missing people, too, Erik – you in particular."

"I only want to make up for the pain I caused you. I want to make things so perfect here you would never wish to leave." He turns from stacking the dishes in the cupboard to face her.

"You do everything…"

"Is that so terrible?" he says as they return to the sitting room, Christine taking a seat on the red settee, Erik choosing his arm chair.

"I feel like a guest or worse, a doll –not a person with any ability beyond my voice. I would like to take care of you…and I must take care of Gustave," she says. "If I am to live in America, I must earn my way for Gustave and myself."

"Even if you refuse to allow me to support you, I must support my son – he will never go homeless, even if you insist there is a need that does not exist."

Christine's eyes widen at his statement. His face set in grim obstinacy.

His intensity is disconcerting – despite his efforts to moderate his tone, his eyes and clenched fists expose the obsessive need for control. Memories of the past bleed through. A shiver runs up her spine. Her fingers on the velvet mimic Erik's grasping the leather arms of his chair.

Was this a veiled threat to take Gustave from her? Does she really know the man she cast her fate to? Arguing with anyone was something she was unused to. It was always easier to give in. Erik's will was so strong, and his often unpredictable behavior made her wary of challenging him.

"You would have me leave?"

A frown crosses his brow – what she can see of it.

"Of course not – I simply meant that if you left – something I am not certain I could bear – but understand that possibility – you would still be provided for because Gustave is my responsibility. If anything, I thought it would be reassuring for you to know that no matter how preposterous your insistence on going out into a land you know little or nothing of, speaking a language you are still struggling with, having no resources – Gustave would be protected."

Why is this happening? Talk of leaving? She had no desire to leave. It was impossible to hide her fear. Did she really have any power over him? Was it about power? Was love the power? There is something so hard inside of him – a crust formed over years of being alone, abused, hated by others and his own self. Could he bear no other opinion but his own? "You would not take Gustave from me?"

The look of hurt and confusion on his face answers her question as he gathers himself to speak, regaining some composure by smoothing back his hair – the wig. The damned wig and damned mask. Was he going into hiding again?

"Never – my god, Christine – I have just found you again – you are my life…you give me life. You and the boy are everything to me. If he had died, I am not certain I could have gone on living. I expect you felt the same way. How could you believe that I could hurt you in such a way? Are you still so unsure of me?" He leans forward, bracing his arms on his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer.

"I know that you are able to do most anything you wish – you have the funds, the power. I am powerless in that sense. Whether you are capable is something I am unsure of. I am sorry. I love you – I have always loved you, but there is so much I do not know. You must share the ugliness with me, so I can understand. Beginning with removing your mask when we are alone together."

"You will hate me again."

"We crossed that particular bridge a long time ago – your face holds no horror for me. I told you then and I tell you now," she says, leaning forward, a faint smile on her lips, hoping he will appreciate her use of his lyric and reminder of her declaration.

The amber eyes glance up at her – taking in her demeanor before turning away.

"A blank slate is not possible, Erik. I believe I have seen you at your very worst, yet I cannot think of being with anyone else but you. The past is the past, but it can affect the present if you try to pretend it does not exist."

"I did not mean for you to feel threatened or useless."

"Nevertheless," she continues, "I feel like a guest – or worse a doll –not a person with any ability beyond my voice and even that is not being put to use. We are real people."

"You must understand how novel an idea that is for me."

The distress on his face pains her – he could be Gustave slouching into the weathered leather.

The smile widens, a glimmer of light in her aquamarine eyes. Poor man is overwhelmed – how vulnerable he is. Change the subject. "You think my English is poor?"

Visibly relieved, he says, "Everyone thinks your English is poor." His tone playful.

She lifts her chin in feigned indignation. "I am trying."

"My dear – you know more languages than most, thanks to your journeys through Europe with your father – however, you will find that, with the exception of the Trio, those of us who came from Europe struggle with the language of our adopted home."

"Perhaps if we spoke English more when together?" she says. "Gustave would appreciate that, I am sure. He will need better skills for school."

"He is doing quite well – part of being young…and spending so much time with the Trio, although some might wonder at his accent – Squelch with his Polish intonation, Gangle the Brit and Miss Fleck, pure Brooklyn molding the lyrical French – you can hear it in my speech."

"That does not address my ability to occupy and support myself – at the very least to have money of my own if I wish to purchase a gift for you or Gustave or someone else."

"This is something important to you." Erik sighs. "Of course it is – we very nearly ended something that has barely begun."

"It is – I do not want a patron…" She holds up a hand, stopping him from interrupting. "It is a matter of freedom – something you gifted me with all those years ago, but left me in a peculiar situation of bondage."

"Why is this so urgent – the money? You cannot have gone through the fee you were paid to perform in the concert."

Christine lowers her eyes, turning to the window.

"What?"

With a deep breath, she faces him. "I never had the money."

"He kept it? All of it?" Erik bolts from his chair. Unable to contain the energy, he stalks around the room, grasping for the man who is out of his reach. "That bastard."

"No, Erik, please," Christine says, rushing to him, taking hold of his arms. "I told him to take it. I have my jewelry to sell – it would allow him to save face – the rumors about his finances were bad enough. My staying here, then him selling my jewels…"

"Why should you care?"

"There is only so much humiliation a person can bear."

He freezes in place, before removing her hands from his shoulders. "Do not presume you can explain humiliation to me – particularly when forgiving the behavior of that poor excuse for a man."

Christine's face loses all color, as quickly as peace was achieved, they once again find themselves at odds. Taking in the image of the man in front of her. His amber eyes were colder than she had ever seen them. A hand is lifted, moving tentatively, to touch his cheek.

Erik pulls back. "Your compassion seems to know no end."

"Would you have me otherwise?" If they were to have a life together, she could not allow him to intimidate her – however fearsome he might become.

She feels the heat of him study her – taking her measure. Her gaze is steady, holding his eyes with hers without fear or apology.

"I suppose not," he grunts. "Just do not expect me to understand."

"He lived with a woman for ten years who did not love him – at least not in the way he wanted to be loved. He knew I found him wanting, I could not fake something I did not feel."

"Christine, the last thing _I _want to feel is pity for Raoul de Chagny," Erik says, reaching for the hand still being offered to him, pressing it against his lips. "Did he leave you with any funds?"

"A thousand francs."

Erik cringes. "How generous. Since you insist on paying your own way, I shall advance you the money for your jewelry – you may keep it as a loan until you can repay me from earnings. We can set an amount for rental of your apartment. Would that suit you?"

"I feel as though you are humoring me."

"I am offering you a legitimate deal. What do you want then?"

"I want to work."

"You can work for me."

"Doing what?"

"Singing…with the orchestra…in the ballroom."

"Modern songs?"

"Why not? We could add some popular arias. It is singing – with excellent musicians, I might add."

"What about the opera?"

"Hammerstein?"

She shrugs.

"He is likely to have heard of your performance – possibly even sent a scout. If Nadir was aware of your performing, others likely knew."

"I should like to try."

"Of course."

"Are you angry?"

"No. I hoped we could work something out here – but if this is what you want to try…is there something I can do to assist you?"

"No," she says, glancing up at him from her lowered eyelashes. "I have sent him a letter requesting an audition."

"I see…"

"In the meantime, I must be busy. I do not want to repeat the life I had with Raoul here – being a useless person – going from day to day doing nothing of substance. That sort of life is what turned Raoul into the man he is. I need a purpose. You have reawakened my joy for music – I do not wish it to be lost again."

"Come here." He takes her hand and walks her to the baby grand piano gracing the corner of the room. Riffling through a stack of papers, he removes a piece of sheet music, placing it on the music shelf he sits down and begins to play and sing:

_"She's only a bird in a gilded cage,_

_A beautiful sight to see._

_You may think she's happy and free from care,_

_She's not, though she seems to be."_

Christine slaps him on the shoulder. "You are a terrible person. That song is about a woman who married an old man for money."

"While you are waiting for Mr. Hammerstein, you could learn this song and some others to perform in the ballroom. I am writing a musical play – not opera, I am not certain opera would be successful here – but with more songs like _Love Never Dies_."

"You are writing something for me?" Leaning over his shoulder, she gives him a hug.

"Who else, my love?"

_And what could a woman want more?_

_But memory brings like the face of the lad_

_Whose love she had turned aside._

_But happiness cannot be bought with gold,_

_Although she's a rich man's bride._

"Ironically, it is somewhat biographical – some might have believed Raoul's role would be reversed with yours had we married," she smirks.

"Harrumph, you turned my joke against me," Erik says, looking up at her. "I fear you are correct – come sit here beside me."

Christine laughs as she sits down on the bench, her back to the piano, facing him. Pressing her breasts against his arm – ignoring the slight stiffening of his body at the pressure, she says, "Perhaps I would be remiss if I refused this and your other offers."

"I believe you would be."

"Shall we seal our deal?"

"And how do you propose we do that?" His voice hitches, despite the agile movement of his fingers gliding gently across the keyboard, continues with the tune.

"Well, we could shake hands."

"We could."

"Or I could write out our agreement and sign it…putting my wax seal upon it. That would make it legal."

"You could."

"Or – and I believe I like this idea the best…"

"Yes?" The playing stops.

"We could kiss."

He hesitates only a moment before saying, "I believe I like that idea best as well."

"It is so lovely when we agree," she says, tilting her head. "Shall we?"

Erik bows his head and clears his throat before removing his mask, keeping his head turned away.

"I think it is time for you to start kissing me regularly and often. Once upon a time, it appeared we would be quite good at kissing…and other activities. We must formalize our commitment after all."

Erik shakes his head. "I love you," he chuckles.

Pressing her palm to his damaged cheek, she turns his head to face her. "No more talk. Time for kisses."

"Yes, I agree – definitely time for kisses."

* * *

"A Bird in a Gilded Cage, " by Arthur J. Lamb (lyrics) and Harry Von Tilzer (music), 1900.


	6. Warm Unspoken Secrets

Warm Unspoken Secrets

The Eyrie is completely dark, except for the slim band of light growing longer and wider as Erik opens the door. Holding his arm out, blocking Christine's entrance, he flips a switch on the wall. Allowing her to pass, he watches her head crane to watch the panels on the domed ceiling open, revealing a series of skylights, allowing the moon to further light the room with a silver glow.

"During the day, the natural light is preferable for design," he says. "I have learned to love the feeling of the sun on my face after the years spent in the cellars of the Garnier."

"This is wonderful," she says, turning around to take in the effect of having the sky indoors.

Erik turns on several lamps revealing his different work areas – musical instruments, several large drafting tables and a number of automatons grouped according to function…or so it appears to her.

"I hardly remember this room – I was in here for such a short time," she says, walking to the grand piano, covered with a multi-colored tapestry – the golden threads woven into the piece reflecting the lamplight. "I wondered that you might have a larger piano than the one in your apartment somewhere…no organ?"

"The destruction of the organ under the Palais was as much a message to me as your leaving," he says,

"How so?"

"The music that came from me when I worked with the organ unleashed all my darkest desires and fears, as well as revealing the ugliness I carried with me my entire life."

"Don Juan Triumphant?"

"Yes, my masterpiece – reflecting how base my nature truly was."

"The music was actually quite brave – there are not many who would put their soul on display. As for the organ…it was merely an instrument. Instruments reflect the creator – you have changed and I am certain any music you create with an organ would reflect who you are now."

"Perhaps, but I prefer to leave all of that in the past."

Her wanderings continue around the enormous room, eyeing the creatures both abnormal and completely mundane representations of human anatomy. "Some of these are quite nightmarish."

"People like to be frightened, so long as they know they will find safety at the end of a tunnel."

Approaching a case, perhaps six feet tall, covered with a velvet curtain, she turns to him asking, "May I?"

"Of course, but you might faint."

"Ah…another bride?"

"Not exactly."

"Will I be pleased?"

"Open the draping," he says. "I promised I would keep no secrets from you."

Their eyes lock. The rapid beating of his heart belies the calm in his eyes as he gazes at her. Can she sense his anxiety? What might she think of her replica? What might she think of him? The mention of the bride should not have surprised him, but it did, nonetheless. What had Nadir told him – women forgive but never forget.

"No. Something else that belongs to the past," she says, turning away from the case, "Thank you for showing me where you work. Is this where we will resume my lessons?"

The tension in his body disappears, had he been holding his breath. Even in his desire to believe he prevented her from seeing his struggle, watching her mull over her decision he realized her understanding and, once again, her compassion. "If you would like."

"I would like," she says, walking to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "This could be our playroom."

Erik quirks an eyebrow.

"You said there was an apartment here – where you would sleep when too tired to walk to the hotel."

"I did."

"No one else comes here?"

"Not unless they are invited. Their presence would be announced in any event."

"More traps?"

"Alarms – no mechanisms to cause injury, except for a ringing in the ears when the siren goes off."

"So we would have privacy – for lessons or other activities."

"Other activities? What did you have in mind?"

"We did talk about more kissing."

"Yes, I seem to remember that discussion."

Their lips were so close. Erik's arm following the curve of her waist, pulling her to his chest. Her hand cupping his cheek. Their heads tilted. Lips so very close. A rush of quick breathing – murmurs of love.

The door bursting open.

"Maman, I cannot find my violin. Did I leave it here?" Gustave rushed past them to the piano. "Oh, good, here it is," he announced. "Miss Fleck wants me to accompany her in a new routine she has created."

"That is nice, Gustave – have fun." Christine said, breaking away from Erik's embrace. Her face flushed – a combination of ardor and embarrassment.

Erik turned his head so the boy could not see him to put his mask back on. "Be sure to let us have the first preview."

"Oh, I will. You can go back to kissing now," he calls over his shoulder as he runs out, slamming the door behind him.

"I think it is time that we stopped talking and began doing."

Erik shakes his head and places his hands on her hips. "When did you become such a vixen?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I suppose you never felt comfortable being flirtatious with me – I must have been truly horrid."

"First you were my angel – not human. Then you were, my friend? We talked…or I talked…about my life, my pappa. I was partly in awe of you and partly afraid."

"Then there was the Vicomte."

"Yes. Raoul. He was my romantic fantasy – a boy I loved and dreamed about. Sometimes, when I was alone, after Pappa died, I would think about having a friend. Raoul was the only friend I ever had…before Meg…and you."

"I am sorry about those losses – for you. You deserve to be happy."

"Why, because I can sing?"

"No, because you are good and kind. Only someone like you could find something to love in me when I was nothing but hateful and angry."

"Then we are well matched," she says, "and I am happy, now, here with you."

"I only wish to be worthy of your love."

"Stop that talk – it is unattractive – I like you better when you are bellowing and overbearing."

"You do?"

"Well, no, not really – you can be truly fearsome," she laughs, "but you had enough confidence to believe that the memory of our one night together would be enough to bind me to you."

"I suppose I did," he chuckles. "It was the one memory keeping me from total madness."

"Right now you are driving me to total madness," she says. "Have I told you I am very fond of your new choices in clothing?" She removes his jabot, opening the collar of his poet's shirt, running a finger from his throat to his now bared chest. "I am here…in the flesh…not a mannequin or automaton…yet you chatter on."

"Nerves. I am anxious."

"Yes, you were that night as well," she laughs. "We managed to muddle through, though. Feeling our way, as it were." She runs her hand under the shirt, pressing it against his breast.

"You truly are brazen."

"I can feel your heart."

"Are you not concerned about our situation…people talking."

"People have always talked about me – may as well put truth to their lies. I find I do not care anymore. I love you, Erik, and I want to express my love with my body and I think you would like to do the same."

"Yes." He can barely breathe the word.

"So – where is the bedroom or must we make do with our cloaks on the floor?"

"Um, here…over here." He takes her hand and leads her to a door at the far end of the Eyrie. The bedroom is a replica of the Louis Phillippe room in the bowels of the Palais Garnier. Her room. The only differences – a skylight and several floor to ceiling windows with a view of the sea.

"Oh, how lovely, even in this dim light, it looks almost the same." She turns to hug him. "I love this room. Is this where you sleep…when you stay here?"

"No…I have another…very plain. This was always just for you."

"And now, here I am." Gazing into his eyes, she removes his mask and wig before, returning her attention returns to his garments. Unclasping his cummerbund, she removes it to untuck his shirt from his trousers, then pulls it over his head. "We have more light this time – there is a full moon. I like being able to see you." The shirt follows the cummerbund over her shoulder landing on the edge of a chair.

"Best the light not be too revealing, I fear you will find no beauty underneath my clothing – this body is somewhat of a wreckage."

Making no attempt to cover himself, he watches as Christine examine his chest and arms. The scars vary from deep ridges to thick ropes – depending upon the vehicle of torture – knives or whips – a particularly ugly scar circling his neck – a deeper twin to Raoul's.

"If it takes a lifetime, I will kiss every mark and scar."

"Oh, my dear." Taking her chin in his hand, he lifts her lips to his, first brushing gently, their breath meeting before the contact of flesh to flesh.

It is she who takes his lower lip in her fine teeth, biting him lightly, eliciting a gentle moan. The kiss intensifies, leaving them both breathless.

"Clothing can certainly put a damper on passion," Christine says, fumbling with the buttons of her bodice.

"Let me," Erik says. After a kiss to each palm, he attends to the deliberate removal of each garment, lingering to admire her breasts, belly, hips and thighs as each piece of silk, organza and lace is discarded, until she is left wearing only a flesh-colored satin chemise.

"You are a goddess, you know…" Fingertips ghosting her from head to toe, his eyes alight with wonder.

"If you do not actually touch me I will scream."

"Touch you where?" A lock of hair is brushed from her shoulder. "Here?" Flicking first one strap, then the other of her chemise, allowing the delicate fabric to fall of its own weight to the floor, she stands naked before him.

The moonlight reveals full breasts, slightly pendulous, and a soft belly reminders of the child she has borne and nursed. Her hips and thighs are rounded and smooth, creamy white framing the chestnut curls of her pubis.

"I am blushing – I can feel it," she says. "Your eyes – they are on fire, I am on fire."

"Come." He lifts and carries her to the four-poster, lying her on the lush bedding. "So beautiful." Trousers removed, he lies next to her. Cupping first one breast than the other, he takes each nipple into his mouth, finding nurturing only experienced once before.

As he suckles, Christine cards the meager hair on his head, humming softly.

When the ball of the hand finds the veil to her private place, she thrusts her groin against his hand to increase the pressure.

Erik groans as he feels her juices dampen her curls. Separating the folds of her vulva, he fingers the entry, finding the bud of pleasure. Brushing it lightly with his thumb as he inserts a finger inside her – stroking, synchronizing his movement with hers.

Abandoning her breasts, he positions himself between bent knees she spreads wide for him. He lowers his face to taste her, darting his tongue in and out, before taking her clit gently between his teeth, first rolling the pearl then nipping and sucking to her mewls of delight.

As the increased intensity, her hips buck. Matching her rhythm he brings her to climax…his reward, her thighs embrace his head. A most marvelous feeling.

"I am a greedy woman," she breathes, as he rises from her garden of joy, a silly grin on his face.

"It is I who wants more."

"Well, what is stopping you," she jokes, sliding her hand over her private place. "There is more to be had."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed," she says. "There is the matter of your handsome appendage, looking a bit forlorn and in need of comfort." Lifting herself up on an elbow, she reaches for his fully engorged member, caressing him.

"Such a good woman you are," he groans. "I do not deserve your grace."

"I shall decide what you deserve. I want you inside me," she says. "My body craves you."

Positioning himself over her, she lifts herself up to him again – open…waiting. Never did he really think he would be so blessed again. Becoming one with his Christine. Slowly, he pushes his penis against her. The heat and moisture of her welcomes him. Different from that first time – the first time for both of them.

"It is all right," she says, guiding him, lifting her hips. "I want all of you."

With those words, he surrenders, pushing into her, feeling her body welcome his – gripping him tightly – he has come home. Slowly stroking at first, he finds that time and long-denied desire drive him to lose control, thrusting into her over and over until he can wait no longer and releases, feeling her with him. Her delicate fingers digging into his back. Words of love whisper in his ear. "Min sota."

Depleted, he rests on top of her, her legs still wrapped around his waist. Encouraged by her welcome beneath him, he buries his head in the crook of her neck, nuzzling and kissing the soft skin behind her ear. "I am a happy man."

"I am a satisfied woman."

"Truly – it was not too rushed?"

"It was perfect," she says. "It was wonderful seeing the moon and the stars. Our first time it was just stars."

"And outside on a rooftop."

"True, but it was wonderful."

"I did love you."

"I know. I loved you."

"Loved?"

"Then I tried not to."

"Now?"

"I do have to revise my statement…there is a now for us. A future as well."

He kisses her before rolling away to pull up the duvet folded at the bottom of the bed, to cover them. Lying back down, he says, "Min sota?"

"My sweet one."

"Min sota. Thank you. Min sota."


	7. Hammerstein, Root Beer & Nipper the Dog

Hammerstein, Root Beer and Nipper the Dog

Erik paces the floor of the eyrie, fingers moving in time to a concerto only he can hear. Every so often he walks toward the door, turns the knob, then pulls his hand back and returns to pacing. The pattern he has repeated for the past hour, is only interrupted, by the removal of the gold watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. Instead of what seem like hours, in actuality only mere minutes have passed.

A soft knock nearly undoes him, his heart beat slows then races, he takes a moment to catch his breath before returning to the door he has so far managed to resist opening to Christine. "Oh, thank god," he gasps, pulling her to him.

"Whatever is the matter with you? You look as though you are going to faint," she says, drawing back to feel his forehead, searching his face – a frown creasing her own brow.

Feeling somewhat embarrassed at this extreme display of emotion, he takes her hand, pressing it to his lips before releasing his embrace. "I was concerned – the hour was getting late. I expected you to have returned earlier."

"That," she growls, walking past him, each finger of her gloves pinched and pulled with a venom he has seldom seen from her. Tossing them, along with her reticule and bonnet onto the piano, she asks, "Is there any tea? I am parched." She paces the same path Erik covered only moments ago. "A lorry tipped over and blocked the street. The cab driver insisted there was no way around the blockage, but I am certain he was only interested in the increased size of the fare because of the delay. Brutish, arrogant fool – calling me little lady – telling me to remain calm. _För fan i helvete, jävla idiot_!*"

"Tea? Of course," he says, unsure of how to address her rage, fearful it might find its way to him. "I should have driven you myself as I suggested."

"That would not have prevented the accident."

"Perhaps not, but I would not have been on the verge of a heart attack for the past hour."

"Well, so long as our priorities are in order," Christine deadpans. "I shall prepare the tea."

"No, my dear. You likely wish to freshen yourself, you seem quite distressed – I shall prepare your tea and a treat while you see to your needs."

"I said I would prepare the tea." Turning on her heel, she stomps to the small kitchen.

Erik follows her, wary of speaking, but unable to stop himself. "I shall telephone the business owner tomorrow and file a complaint."

Turning abruptly to put her face a close to his as possible. "You will do nothing of the kind. I paid him the same fare I was charged going to the Manhattan Opera House and told him if he had a complaint he could take it up with the lorry driver."

"He allowed you to leave?"

"No. He stood in front of me and Claire, refusing to let us pass and demanded his fee."

"And?"

Christine starts laughing. "We ran. I grabbed Claire's hand and we ran into the hotel. He started to follow, but did not want to leave his vehicle."

Erik adds his laughter to hers.

"I would have been here sooner, but had to walk from the hotel." She wraps her arms around his neck, lifting herself on her tiptoes, she kisses him. "You must teach me to drive, I refuse to be at the mercy of someone else when I need to travel somewhere."

"Well, um…"

"Yes. You will."

"When you phrase it in such a charming fashion – how can I refuse?" he says. "I can prepare the tea if you wish to take a moment for yourself."

"You are such a funny man – I cannot imagine anyone else being so concerned about my elimination needs."

"I can only judge by what I observe, my dear – you most always make use of the bathroom before going out and upon returning home."

"Do you know everything?" she asks, leaving him in the kitchen.

"I only wish to serve."

"Well, you need not be so astute, it can be disconcerting."

There was so much to learn about her – how considerate should he be. Perhaps he must be more circumspect about his observations. Moments in the past taught him as much. Despite his efforts to minimize his watchfulness – as_ he_ chose to call it – nothing pleased nor entertained him more than watching Christine.

Each day brought some new revelation – how she stirred a cup of tea, waiting until the two lumps of sugar had completely melted, then two quick turns of the spoon before adding cream. Or how she secured her bonnet, pushing the hatpin to where it just barely touched her scalp – he knew this by the bit of air she released from her lips – before pulling it back slightly, then driving the body of the pin to the hilt.

The best moments were those spent together, though, exploring the other's body. Discovering her areolas puckered when he barely touched them with the tip of his tongue, or the sweet moans escaping her lips when he fingered her rosebud – as he named the bundle of nerves at the entrance to her secret place. When he was absorbed into her – no separation between them – when there was no time or place…only the two of them becoming one. Every note of music he wrote to express this sensation paled in comparison to how he felt when joined with her.

He could gladly spend the rest of his life simple observing her going through her day.

Nevertheless, he was very much aware his attentions sometimes distressed her – and so, he was learning to back away – to give her space…freedom. Today he accepted her desire to find her own way to Hammerstein's office, accompanied by her maid – understanding that a woman alone in any city was fair game to all sorts of mischief. At least there was some safety in two women – as proved to be the case with the obnoxious cabby. A laugh bubbled up, picturing the two women eluding the bully. For his part, he would not have been so cordial.

"Boo," she laughs, snuggling up behind him. "Where did you go? You are just standing here holding the kettle."

His reverie broken, he folds an arm over hers. "Just thinking."

"Hmmm, about what, I wonder."

"You, of course," he says, coloring brightly, "about fixing your snack."

"Um hmmm. Then perhaps you should put the kettle on to boil."

"Oh, right," he laughs, lighting the stove, taking the chore seriously and setting about to prepare a light meal as well as the promised drink.

"Where is Gustave?"

"In his study…"

Christine's eyebrows rise. "Study?"

"That is what he calls the small bedroom. I set it up as a private place for him. I am only concerned he will soon be requesting a leather armchair and a humidor."

"He does not need a study," she says. "You are spoiling him."

"He said I was driving him mad with my pacing and finger wiggling," he says, putting out the tea things, setting the halved bologna and cheese sandwiches he prepared along with some potato chips and dill pickles on plates for the three of them. "And, I see no harm in him having a place to retire when things become too hectic here in the eyrie. However, I will put my foot down if he requests bottles of root beer be available whenever he is present."

"He does not know of the…our room?"

"No, my dear, the door is safely secured from little noses."

"The display case...?"

"Gone," he says, looking over her head into the main room where the mannequin was recently housed. Shifting his focus back to her. "A new cabinet was needed for the animated fortune teller."

Christine cocks an eyebrow at him.

"Parts – for other designs." He lifts her chin and kisses her lightly on the mouth. "As I said – gone."

Giving him a peck in return, she smiles. Picking up a tray, she calls, "Gustave?" as she helps carry the food to a small table in the main room, avoiding an automaton with 4 arms and the ability to play drums and cymbals at the same time.

"Have you done cursing?" the boy says, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "You woke me up."

"Is that how you speak to your mother? It is too late to be taking a nap," Erik says. "I thought you were going to read."

"I am sorry, Maman, but you _were_ very loud," he says, "I was reading, but got sleepy."

"Do you feel ill?" Christine asks, attempting to feel his brow.

Slipping away, he replies. "No, just bored – it is more fun being out here in the main room, but Papa Y was getting on my nerves."

Erik clears his throat. "So I informed your mother."

"I told you she would be all right – she and her pappa traveled all over and if something were to happen, she would take care of it."

"And your Papa Y traveled all over as well and knows well the hazards of being alone on the streets."

"Well, anyway, I became worried, too, and decided to sleep," he says. "Why were you so angry?"

"There was a traffic accident and then the cabby got fresh with her."

"There, I was right because here she is cursing in Swedish. She only does that when very annoyed."

"Are all my actions observed and catalogued? First your father, now you."

"Maman, you are very predictable," Gustave says, sitting down at the table, grabbing one of the sandwiches and taking a bite, along with some of the pickle. "Is there any root beer?"

Exchanging a knowing look with Erik, Christine says, "It would appear I am not the only one whose behavior follows a certain pattern."

"What?"

"Root beer, my son," Erik says. "Root beer with be your downfall."

Gustave squints at him, shrugs and continues eating his dinner.

"The tea should be ready and I will get your beverage," Erik says, walking back to the kitchen. "In all this talk about cursing and habits and root beer, you failed to say anything about your meeting with Mr. Hammerstein."

Christine flops down on the chair across from Gustave and picks up a chip and munches on it. "There is not much to say."

"Seriously – he did not wish to hire you?"

"Well, then he is not a very smart man," Gustave says.

"Oh, he is a very smart man, he is so smart – he has too many sopranos – all better known than I."

"But your performance here – he wrote his son was here and heard you."

"He did and he liked me…but he was interested in Meg."

"Meg?"

"Willie, his son, has a vaudeville show, he was actually scouting the other acts – Meg in particular. They thought it was she who requested the interview," Christine says with a bitter laugh.

"Did he at least have you sing – once he knew who you were?"

Nodding, she says, "He thought my voice was _superb_ – his word, but, like I said – he has too many sopranos – Mary Garden and Nellie Melba are either performing now or will be shortly and Luisa Tetrazinni is scheduled for the near future." With a shrug, she picks up a sandwich to nibble on. "He generously offered me the opportunity to understudy."

"The man has no ear – you are superior to any of those others," he declares loudly. The look on her face completely disarms him – biting her lip, holding back the tears forming in her aquamarine eyes. This was the Opera Populaire all over again – damn the man for hurting her. As much as he did not want her to work for Hammerstein, he, nevertheless, hoped the man would give her the praise and recognition she deserved. "I am sorry, I know you wanted to perform for him."

"He asked me why I did not continue here – your venue being available to people who might not attend his operas – establish a reputation here…in America."

"True enough – although we would have to be creative about how you are presented."

"I just wanted to do this on my own. Not be dependent upon you." A handkerchief is tugged from her sleeve, she dabs at her eyes and wipes her nose.

"Maman, that is just silly. Papa Y has a theater, you live right here, he will probably pay you better than Mr. Hammerstein. Aaand he will never fire you," he says before taking a long swig of his soda.

"There is that," she chuckles.

"All the others here talk about is finding new jobs when the season is over and they are worried they will not get hired back."

"The wisdom of youth," Erik says, grinning broadly. "However, if you are determined, I could find a way to play a few pranks at his opera house."

"No. No." Shifting her eyes back and forth between her two men, she sighs deeply. "I surrender. You are correct. After that drive today, I would soon tire of traveling back and forth."

"Yippee!" Gustave exclaims.

He and Erik return her gaze with bright eyes, matching grins growing larger as she settles into the realization that her life was here on Coney Island – all of it. Soon her own smile matches theirs.

"Phantasma it is," she says, lifting her tea cup in kudos.

"Oh, Christine, I…we, Gustave and I have some other ideas, too – we did not want to pressure you into anything."

"Like what – singing with the orchestra in the ballroom?"

"Yes, that, but, something else – people will be able to hear your voice in New York and Chicago and even London and Paris."

Her brow furrows.

"Records," Gustave exclaims.

"We can record your voice and Papa Y's voice and mine and the violins and pianos." He points to the gramophone – a square, highly-polished, wooden box with a massive brass horn attached to it.

"Your invention?"

"No, unfortunately – Messrs. Edison and Berliner are to be thanked for the technology, but Gustave and I are working to refine the process for the best sound reproduction. I wish I had thought to use one of the older devices to record you while at the Palais."

"You mean to make recordings of me – why?"

"To sell, of course. For those who cannot travel to theaters, but still crave fine music. These will be your earnings, in addition to your salary as a performer."

"I will earn money, too, Maman, if my records sell!" Gustave exclaims. "I shall be rich."

"There is no doubt," Erik says.

"Why did you not say something sooner? What if Mr. Hammerstein had offered me a part in his opera?"

"I did not want you to refuse him if he offered you a role because you felt some obligation to do the recordings. We would have worked around your performance schedule, were that the case."

Tears form in Christine's eyes again, she dabs at them with the white linen hanky trimmed with pink tatting. Walking around to Erik's chair she hugs him from behind, pressing a kiss on his bare cheek. "Thank you."

"Maman is going to be a star."

"There is a new invention called an AM radio** which can transmit singing and reading from transmitters. As that progresses, records can be played in one place and sent by radio waves to people's homes. There will be no need to travel for people to hear you sing and Gustave play and if they do not possess a gramophone or do not buy a record, they can listen on their radio."

"Or, if they hear her on the radio, they will buy the record," Gustave adds.

"You shall definitely be a rich man, son."

"And you? You would not have to be concerned about your face."

"People would still want to know who was singing, my dear," he says. "In any event Enrico Caruso is quite popular."

"You could be popular, too," Gustave says.

"Ah, but Mr. Caruso has a very handsome face which helps promote his singing."

"But, Erik…"

"Let it be, Christine – I shall accompany you and Gustave – that will be sufficient for me."

"Not fair," Gustave pouts.

"My son, my lady – I do not need the applause of strangers – my gifts have been presented to the public – I have known applause before contempt. My joy, now, will come from your successes." He lowers his eyes, pressing his cheek against Christine's hand. "That is all I need."

"Those decisions can be made down the road," Christine says. "So much for me to absorb. The two of you certainly make a team."

"A good team, right?"

"A very good team."

Raising a dill pickle spear, Erik says, "To selling records."

"To selling records," Christine and Gustave repeat, holding their dill spears in the air imitating his action.

"Now let us consume this masterful meal I have prepared. I am actually hungry."

* * *

*For the devil in hell, stupid idiot!

**On Christmas Eve 1906, Reginald Fessenden used a synchronous rotary-spark transmitter for the first radio program broadcast, from Ocean Bluff-Brant Rock, Massachusetts. Ships at sea heard a broadcast that included Fessenden playing O Holy Night on the violin and reading a passage from the Bible. This was, for all intents and purposes, the first transmission of what is now known as amplitude modulation or AM radio.


	8. Look With Your Heart - A Christmas Story

Look With Your Heart – A Christmas Story

"Your healing is progressing?" Erik asks striding toward Adele as she crosses the stage toward one of the several long tables covered with white cloths, each displays a centerpiece of poinsettias bound with gold ribbons. Alternating red and green place mats frame white dishware. The folding chairs wear strands of garland continuing with the festive decorations.

Although most of the artists and crew tend to travel south during the winter months for work at other fairs and circuses, many stay behind to help maintain and do necessary repairs at Phantasma. A few have apartments in Brooklyn – mostly the workers with families, but others, primarily the _freaks_, live in the boarding house Erik constructed on the property away from the public areas.

Christine wanted to provide a Christmas dinner celebration for everyone with the help of the hotel kitchen staff. Roast goose, turkey, boiled root vegetables, and assorted dessert treats were prepared – enough for this dinner with leftovers for everyone take home. The staff are setting up the smorgasbord, Christine preferring the idea of everyone choosing their meal, rather than having the food served.

A large evergreen commands the rear of the stage – a decorating party held the night before for anyone wishing to attend and the resultant tree was a beautiful example of the artistic handiwork of the stage crew and costumers. Ribbons and balls of green and red, candles and candy canes co-mingled with handmade ornaments to give the needed touch of personality to make everyone feel welcome.

Brightly wrapped boxes, large and small are stacked under and around the tree. A number of small children entertain themselves shaking the gifts and looking for packages with their names printed on the tags. An occasional shout of "Mine," or "This says Mary." "Edward." "Jonathan."

Gustave holds court at the grand piano, early arrivals gravitating to the sound of his playing – the Trio, his now constant companions, join him in singing carols. Miss Fleck exhibits a strong mezzo, worthy of any _Carmen_. Her harmony with Gustave's soprano on the First Noel brings everything to a standstill. The last note bringing enthusiastic congratulations from the entire Phantasma family.

Both Erik and Adele join in the applause, Erik in particular, shouting "Bravo, brava. Encore!" Satisfied the young musician and his special friend know of his acknowledgement, he returns his attention to Adele.

"The doctor gave me a clean bill of health over a month ago – an infection had taken hold or I would have been released sooner," she replies. "Thank you for asking…and for inviting me to the party. The boy is quite talented."

"Yes. He is," Erik says simply, his eyes soften as he glances once more at Gustave. "Christine insisted," he replies. "She is far more forgiving than I am. A quality for which I am most grateful, otherwise, she herself would not be here and I would be alone in the Eyrie yet again. Although, truth be told – I am not entirely comfortable in this milieu."

Adele accepts Erik's small confession with a chuckle. "No, you were never one to enjoy being surrounded by people – Christine's presence has indeed warmed you." Risking a touch to his arm, she says, "I can never apologize enough, Erik."

Golden eyes meet black – offering nothing.

Removing her hand, she nods at the tables. "Do you mind if we continue our conversation over there? I fear, my stamina is not what it once was."

"Of course, I should be happy to escort you, although I have nothing more to say."

"After all these years, you would brush me aside?"

"After all these years, you thought I would cast you and your daughter aside," Erik says. "She almost killed a child – my child...and herself. And you. That was your doing. With your bitterness. I blame you more than Meg. My, god, Adele – you were my family – such as I had."

"I suppose you are correct," she says, holding her cane as she maneuvers herself into a chair at the end of the U. "I loved Phantasma – perhaps too much. I became blinded to everything else. It is not as though you are immune to such emotion."

Sighing, Erik take the seat across from her. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to work – not for the money. Thank you for that. My life is empty – Meg neither needs nor wants me."

"Nadir has been helping me, taking care of the business end since your…injury. He spoke to a number of people at City Hall – known to him through his own business dealings. There was no reason for Meg to be bartering herself for licenses. Was that you or the men taking advantage?"

"You think I would pimp my own daughter?"

Erik shrugs. "Then who? You were ready to give her to me, even knowing where my heart lay – where it would always lie."

"I was getting old…"

"Stop it, Adele." He pounds his hand on the table. "This is not the Palais Garnier – money has never been an issue – there was never a need for the women who work here to seek out patrons – particularly Meg. Especially Meg."

How could he have been so blind to what was going on? Meg was like a daughter to him. He never really took her infatuation seriously – or chose not to see, even after she told him her feelings. Once he cleared the air, he thought the matter settled. "Where is she?"

Adele lifts her chin in the direction of the dressing rooms. "Some of the other Oo La La girls spirited her away to catch up – I was surprised she wanted to come," she says. "M. Khan has been very helpful in assisting us…

"Did I hear my name?" Nadir asks, carrying two glasses of wine, approaching from the wings, followed by a younger version of himself. After handing a drink to Adele, he takes the seat next to her, nodding the young man sit as well.

"Not in vain, Daroga, I assure you." Erik's eyes shift back and forth between the couple. Interesting. He would never have considered the two of them as a match, but who knows about these things. Many years have passed since last seeing Nadir – still grieving the death of his beloved Mitra. The only woman he ever loved, or so he professed. Loneliness often brings about relationships one would never consider otherwise.

He wondered how much of Christine's attraction to him might have stemmed from the loss of her father then and, now…having left a less-than-happy marriage. He pushed that thought aside – she was here, of her own free will – the most important thing. A miracle he was still cautious about, but grateful to be experiencing. At the moment, he was more curious about this budding _romance._ Even someone such as he, with minimal social skills, could see the attraction – a lifetime living on the sidelines made him a keen observer of human behavior.

"This is Darius," Nadir says. "He, of the brave young officers who helped save this wretched life."

"Mr. Y." The young man acknowledges Erik with a brilliant smile. "Nadir has spoken of you often."

"Indeed?"

"Only positive things, I assure you," he laughs, green eyes sparkling, a wide smile exposing straight white teeth.

"He keeps his insults for me alone, then, I suppose," Erik says. "Been saving them up all these years, Daroga?

"I am happy to say my reticence has been rewarded – all the more ammunition to use against you."

"You will find me less anxious these days to engage in verbal sparring."

"We shall see – I would be sorely disappointed to see you became a milquetoast."

"He will never be that," Adele joins in.

"I am happy to finally meet you," Erik says. "Nadir seems to have abandoned whatever occupied him in Manhattan and has taken up residence here. Are you still in his employ?"

"Darius has been helping Meg," Adele says.

"Helping how?" Erik raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued.

"I am training with a doctor who specializes in treatment of mental disorders – he studied with both Dr. Freud and Dr. Jung. I suggested Meg begin seeing the doctor to help deal with her trauma."

"I had no real need for a servant – the idea of him in that role makes me uncomfortable, but he wished to earn his keep." He beams at the younger man. "So he is going to school."

An uproar from the crowd, which has grown considerably in number since Erik last took notice, interrupts their conversation. As quickly as it began, it ceases as Christine sings _Angels We Have Heard on High._

_Angels we have heard on high_

_Sweetly singing o'er the plains_

_And the mountains in reply_

_Echoing their joyous strains_

_Gloria, in excelsis Deo_

_Gloria, in excelsis Deo._

With the song completed, Erik leaves his seat. "If you will excuse me – I should like to thank my lady for her exquisite performance. She will likely raise havoc with me for being an absent host and I must appease her." Extending his hand to Darius, he says, "I should like to speak with you further about both Drs. Freud and Jung. I find Jung's speculations more appealing – dreams and whatnot. As I look around the room, starting with myself, I suspect there are many who might be served by a greater understanding of their psyches."

Darius half rises, "Thank you, Mr. Y. I should like that very much…very much."

Erik searches the crowd gathered around the piano – he senses before actually catching sight of her trim figure gowned in a brilliant red satin gown with a low-cut neckline and puffed sleeves. Red was a color he often favored for himself, but never considered for Christine – but she was radiant – the ruby of the gown accentuating the blush of her cheeks and full lips.

He wondered if there would ever come a day when he failed to be in thrall to her. The few short months since she re-entered his life have been rich and full – a lifetime of love. There was nothing he would not do to provide for her and their son.

_Their son. _

Gustave. The boy sits proudly on the bench playing carol after carol – singing along, helping with lyrics – a natural showman and teacher. The gentle kindness of his mother endears him to everyone. And yet, he has my quick mind, tongue and temper. Thankfully, Christine's influence is present there as well, if only by giving Gustave a pointed look if the boy goes beyond himself.

She shivers at the warm breathe Erik blows along the nape of her neck, the most intimacy he would allow himself in these circumstances, even though his arms long to wrap themselves around her.

"Where have you been?"

"Visiting with Adele."

"And?"

"And it appears she and Nadir are soon to be mating – if they are not already."

"Erik! What a thing to say."

"The truth – I only speak the truth," he laughs. "I also met young Darius, his rescuer."

"Meg?"

"With some of the dancers, I understand," he says. "I wanted to extricate myself from Adele as quickly as possible when I discovered Meg was not with her. I am still not certain this was such a good idea – inviting them."

"You cannot avoid them forever."

"I was more concerned about Gustave."

"You do not think Meg would try to hurt him?"

"No. I was concerned he might be frightened of her, however. We have no idea of her mental state."

"She is seeing a doctor for her mental issues," she blurts out before covering her mouth.

"Is that so?" he smirks. "And you know this how? I only just found out myself."

Christine flushes. "Are you sure? I thought you told me."

"Um hmm – that is why you are covering your mouth. Not wanting to tell me something I am already aware of," he says, taking the hand and kissing it. "I believe I might have said something to you had I known sooner."

"An oversight, I am sure."

"So you have been talking to Adele? Nadir?"

Head bowed, she looks up at him from under her lashes. "Meg."

"I should like to say I see, but I am afraid I do not. Why would you not tell me?"

"I thought you might be upset and I was right – you are."

"My upset is due to not knowing – not that you visited with her," he says. "Gustave is your son after all."

"She did not mean to harm him."

"That is true enough – she would like to have seen me dead," he says. "Nevertheless, she terrified him and he nearly drowned."

"As if I have forgotten." The flush on her cheeks grows brighter, the tone of her voice sharper.

The group around the piano quietens, a quick glance shows more than a few of the party goers are finding more entertainment in the couple's discussion than the caroling.

Taking Christine by the elbow, Erik guides her toward a more private setting to continue their talk. Both offering forced smiles to their guests.

"She was here earlier today – when the Oo La La girls were putting finishing touches on the decorations," she says. "I was dealing with the table settings."

"You did not feel the need to tell me this earlier?"

"I knew you agreed to invite them at my insistence – I, too, wondered if I made a mistake."

"And?"

"She looked so very sad."

Erik waits.

"I approached her and she threw herself into my arms."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Must you be such a cynic?"

"Yes – I trust no one."

"Not even me?"

"You just admitted you kept the meeting with Meg to yourself."

"I was going to tell you."

Erik sighs deeply, taking a moment to choose his words. For so many years he felt no reason to care about how others felt – a response to living a life of rejection from most everyone. If someone was offended, so be it. Nadir took it in his stride and, hard as it was to admit this to himself, he knew the daroga kept him human. For her part, Christine killed the ghost he allowed himself to become and created a man. Being a man meant owning his actions.

"Christine – I feel responsible for what happened – not an easy burden to bear, but I do."

"You cannot blame yourself for the feelings and behavior of others."

"And yet I do," he says, voice cracking – unable to look at her. "So, what is the story?"

"Just that she was happy to be invited and would stay away from Gustave," she says. "She told me she was seeing a doctor."

"That is all?" His moment of self-accusation over.

"She said she was sorry about frightening Gustave…I forgave her."

"What does Gustave have to say about all of this?"

"He does not know…yet."

"No time like the present. Let us retrieve our son before he is terrified all over again." Erik takes her elbow to return to the piano. "Too late."

Christine holds tight to his arm to keep him from running to his son. "Do not make a scene, Erik. Most here do not know what happened."

"Damned woman," he growls. "How dare she approach him?"

"Wait, please. He is fine."

Gustave looks up at the blonde woman who pushed through the small group to stand beside him. It takes a moment for him to recognize her. His hazel eyes grow wide, then shift from her to the members of the Trio situated at different points of the piano. Miss Fleck maintaining her place of honor next to him on the bench, places a hand on his back. His body visibly relaxes.

"_Your mother and I are right here, too."_

Gustave finds Erik's eyes, then his mother's. Taking a deep breath, he asks, "Is there a song you would like to sing, Mlle. Meg?"

"That is most kind of you – I did not expect such kindness. I merely wished to apologize."

Gustave takes her measure, studying her face for a moment before saying, "Okay."

"You forgive me?"

"Maman says you were sick. Papa Y says you were really mad at him."

"I fear both explanations are…were correct."

"Maman says that Christmas is the time for people to love each other."

"Your maman has always been a kind and loving woman."

"So, do you want to sing a song?"

"You do share your father's direct manner of speaking," Meg actually laughs. Her eyes search the room – spotting Erik and Christine watching her. Turning back to Gustave she says, "I have always loved _O Holy Night. _Your mother and I often sang it in duet."

"Maman," he calls out. "Mlle. Meg wants to sing a carol with you – _O Holy Night."_

Christine looks to Erik. "It was a favorite."

"By all means, I should love to hear it."

"Truly?"

"Truly. First steps must be taken."

They join Meg and Gustave at the piano. Erik takes up his violin, signaling for Gustave to play the introduction.

Christine and Meg stand side by side, hand in hand awaiting their cue. Erik nods.

_O holy night the stars are brightly shining_

_It is the night of our dear Savior's birth_

_Long lay the world in sin and error pining_

_Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth_

_A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices_

_For yonder breaks a new glorious morn_

Adele, Nadir and Darius join the others at the piano, adding their voices as the Phantasma family sings the powerful finale, Christine's voice soars above the others.

_Fall on your knees_

_O hear the angels' voices_

_O night divine_

_O night when Christ was born_

_O night divine o night_

_O night divine._


	9. Say You Want Me

Say You Want Me

"This was addressed to you in care of me," Erik says when Christine opens the door of her suite in answer to his knock. "Why the desk clerk did not simply have this package brought to you directly, I do not know." Despite their commitment to one another in private, they continue maintaining separate apartments in the hotel. Partly for propriety's sake, even though the members of the staff and crew still working at Phantasma know them to be a couple. Mainly because of Gustave. Whatever his relationship with Raoul, Christine was still technically married to the Vicomte who is legally Gustave's father.

He sets the package on the edge of the piano – a strange contrast to the Monkey music box – elegant in all the fine detail and workmanship – one of his first experiments with mechanical creatures. The nature of the monkey himself, with his cymbals and Persian costume, is a reminder of the past, but also a cheerful addition to the otherwise impersonal, though well-appointed hotel room.

The parcel of corrugated paperboard, secured with duck tape* and twine is simply out of place. For that reason alone, forget the place of origin, it demands immediate attention. Declare yourself or be gone.

"A belated Christmas gift from the Vicomte, perhaps?" Erik comments, his tone dry if tinged with a smatter of sarcasm.

"I doubt it," Christine says, examining the box without making any effort to undo any of the knots. The timing is curious. Had he intended for this to be a gift? Some act of contrition? Raoul's silence for the past three months was unlike him – he always wanted to talk…to explain why she must behave in one way or another.

In the past, she would ultimately give in to his persistence. His abrupt leave-taking was not his way at all. They argued for a good week – he insisting that Erik cast a spell on her. Well, perhaps he had – but that was long ago. Not a spell, she simply found her soul-mate in an angel turned man. A gifted man whose experiences in life almost destroyed his humanity. Almost. His reappearance in her life perhaps gave her some backbone again. Like that night in the Palais when she unmasked him, a diversion to allow him to escape the guns of the police. The police who were there at Raoul's insistence, but, she had to admit, with her agreement.

This was her opportunity to be with that man. It was unfair to both of them to continue their charade of a marriage. It appeared he finally reconciled himself to her choice, and yet, his leave taking occurred with nary a word of farewell.

When she took the time to think about it, she believed it most likely Erik offered him some sort of payment. Neither the offer nor Raoul's acceptance would surprise her. The money meant nothing to him and everything to Raoul. He had long past felt any shame or remorse in using her to deal with his debts. They would not have been here in the first place were it not for his losses at Monte Carlo. For his part, Erik was maintaining his commitment to her freedom – making no demands to suggest she owed him anything – concerned only for hers and Gustave's wellbeing.

"You are not curious?"

"Of course I am," she says, lifting the box, shaking it, examining the stamps and certificates.

Erik pulls out a pocket knife. Opening it, he offers it to her.

"Oh, thank you, but no."

"Do you think it is an explosive?" he smirks, amber eyes sparkling.

"No – not that it is an explosive, but that it might contain something I…or we may not be able to deal with."

"What on earth could that be?" Erik says. "You are being dramatic. Look. You are even wringing your hands."

"I am a diva – I am allowed to be dramatic," she harrumphs, looking down at her hands, shaking them free, holding one out. "Give me the knife." After cutting the twine, she uses the tip of the knife to slice through the tape securing the top of the box. Seated on top of a nest of shredded paper is a plain, though expensive, envelope with her name – her maiden name, Christine Daae, written in fine calligraphy on its face.

"Hmmm, fancy."

"He is a Vicomte, after all, my dear man – expense be damned."

"Listen to you," Erik chuckles. "You are becoming almost as sarcastic as I."

"Give me time, did you not say the student always outshines the teacher at some point?"

"I must have been drinking. Nadir says no one is more insufferable and you, in all your goodness, would have to experience a drastic personality change to even come close."

She waves a hand at the words. "I am an apt student and you are a most gifted teacher. Nadir might be amused to find himself proved wrong." Using the knife, she slits the envelope and removes several sheets of paper and a single page of stationary, matching the envelope. Leaving the box on the piano, she walks to the settee and sits down.

_My dear, Christine,_

_I felt it best to simply go ahead and file for divorce. Your desires were most apparent – always have been, if we are both being honest. Of the options for cause, I selected mutual desire. It seemed the most appropriate and the most expeditious. Your presence would normally be required, but I convinced the magistrate, who was not adverse to some gold francs crossing his palm, I would obtain your signature. It was of no matter to him. There are certain advantages to nobility._

_I am seeking an annulment with the Catholics – more to satisfy my family than myself. They believe I should consider marrying again – although I believe I have satisfied my own desire for that state. As it stands, however, the church would not allow it if our marriage was considered legal. Gustave's parentage is, of course, my claim. As far as the government is concerned, he is my child, although I suspect you will never seek to take advantage of that fact vis-à-vis title, lands or financial support._

_This annulment may take a while, however, I know it matters little to you from a faith standpoint. _

_So, for all intents and purposes, you are a free woman. Something you always demanded. I will argue with you no further. You have chosen someone I will never be able to think of as anything but a monster, but as some might say – that is my problem. A little jest._

_I have accumulated yours and Gustave's things, mostly apparel, although Gustave did have a collection of books and toys. They are being shipped to you at the same address I used for this package._

_This is likely to be my last communication, except to send the notices regarding the confirmations of the divorce and annulment, and I do not wish to end it on a sour note. Therefore, I wish you well and hope you and Gustave find a good life for yourselves in America. Because you are who you are, I believe you hope the same positive future for me and I thank you for that._

_Most sincerely,_

_Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny_

After reading the letter, she scans the other papers.

"I am divorced," she states when finished, holding the papers out for Erik to read. "I simply sign the last page and return it to Raoul. He took care of everything. Even convincing the magistrate to relieve the necessity of my presence. The advantages of being a noble."

"No explosions, but a shock nonetheless, it would appear." Erik walks over to her, taking the papers and sits down next to her. "Are you all right?"

With a deep breath, she shakes her head, a flood of tears flow down her cheeks. "I did love him. The marriage was not entirely bad – we simply were poorly matched. Had we both been poor – or had I been of his societal level…. Had you not existed… this seems so cold and indifferent after much of my life being spent with him being a part of it – either in fantasy or reality – Raoul was my dream." Resting her head on Erik's shoulder, she says, "As with most dreams, however, the real man was different."

"Do you wish to look inside the box?"

"I believe I know what is there."

"Redemption for Raoul?"

She laughs softly, "You could say that."

Erik gets up and brings the box over to the coffee table and, after tossing aside the shredded paper, reveals two small wooden sewing boxes.

"One was my mother's – the other my father's. He was supposed to pack them for our journey here. When I discovered them missing, we had a terrible row on the ship," she says. "Open the larger one."

Erik lifts the lid of the casket and picks up a rolled piece of black wool fabric, when flattened out reveals a large square embellished with jet beading. "From my cape."

"Mm hmm. These boxes were the only things I brought with me that night – when I came to you. They held all my mementos. I could not take the cape itself, so I extracted this bit as a remembrance of you. I left the cape itself in the bin for the poor at the church. I could neither take it with me, nor could I leave it behind."

"I am certain the sisters made good use of the fabric – it was quite costly at the time, as I recall," he comments absently, brushing the scrap with his thumb. Eyes closed, he shakes his head. "I do not know how I could have left you."

"Neither do I." Christine removes the cloth from his hand and returns it to the box – closing the lid.

"Can you ever forgive me? I hated him, but I believed he loved you."

"He did, as best he could. He just was not you." She takes his hand. "How much did you give him? He already had the money from the performance."

"You know me too well," Erik chuckles, then grows thoughtful. "I doubled the fee – he lives in a cruel world. As he cared for you and my son – he could have cast you both on the street." Encouraged she still holds his hand, he chances a look at her, he asks, "Are you angry?"

With a quick shake of her head, she says, "It is done, Erik, we have been through all of this – recently and over the past ten years. I think we have both suffered enough from the decisions we made those years ago. For me, it makes me all the more grateful to have a second chance."

Slipping from the sofa, he props himself on one knee in front of her.

Cocking her head, she asks, "What are you doing?"

"I did this once in a most awkward way, in a most unusual situation – perhaps this is as well, in another way, but…" Taking the ring of platinum set with a black diamond from his little finger, and placing it on the ring finger of her left hand, "will you marry me?"

"Maman," Gustave calls as he bursts through the front door.

Erik stands, straightening his jacket. "Gustave must you always speak in forte?"

"Mr. Squelch said a package was delivered and I thought it might be another Christmas gift," he says, running to his parents giving each of them a kiss on the cheek – Erik bending down to receive his. "Is this the package?"

"Yes, Gustave," Christine says, looking up apologetically at Erik, "but it is not a gift for you, although the letter that came with it spoke of you."

The boy's face falls. "What does it say?"

"Pere…Raoul has written he is sending all your books, toys and clothing. That is something of a gift."

The downward turn of Gustave's mouth at the news suggests otherwise. "That is all?"

"He sent my sewing boxes that were forgotten."

The hazel eyes roll, the mouth now pressed into a definite pout. "What else – you two look different and you have been crying," he says. "Pere is not being mean to you again?"

"No, darling. Actually, he has applied and received permission for us to be divorced. I am no longer married to him…or will no longer be married to him once I sign this paper and return it."

"Then you must do so immediately," he declares, flopping down on the settee next to her.

"I agree," Erik comments.

"Are you going to marry Papa Y then?"

"I was just asking her the same question."

They are both so expectant, their eyes so hopeful and loving. Once again, she feels the pressure to make a decision holding many lives in balance. An old resistance wells up in her – the desire to run or to scream _let me be_. I do not want this burden. But why do I want to wait? To give myself a chance to breathe a moment as just Christine – lover of Erik, mother to Gustave, certainly – but just a person. Erik sees my hesitation and I see his hope changing to fear. Gustave, bless him, only looks curious. Most likely at my delay in replying more than questioning the decision he is certain I will make.

"Do you have a pen?"

Erik nods and pulls a fountain pen from the inner pocket of his coat, uncapping it, he hands it to her.

She signs the last page of the document and dates it. "So thoughtful, he even provided an envelope for the return," she says, folding the paper, placing it in the envelope and sealing it. "There. That is done."

Leaving the missive on the table, she turns the ring on her finger and smiles. "I believe you both asked me a question." Perhaps it was unfair, but she rather liked holding them at bay – they were so powerful, the two of them together – so much alike – her angels of music.

"I believe we did," Erik says, a glimmer of light returns to his eyes.

Too many years of sorrow for him, for all of them, surely, but for him – there is no need to delay what will be a new life. They should live together, not in three different places, unsettled and undefined. The package was indeed a gift. "Yes, I am going to marry Papa Y – as soon as we are assured the divorce is final."

Erik releases the breath he was holding, allowing Gustave to hug Christine before joining them on the settee.

Giving his mother a kiss on the cheek, the boy excuses himself. "Well, since there is no present, I am going back to see Dr. Gangle – he is teaching me how to juggle."

"I thought you already mastered juggling," Erik says.

"Oh, I can juggle three balls, but we are working on five now."

"Then I suppose you must go – that sounds quite urgent," Christine chuckles. "We shall have a demonstration once you have mastered the trick."

"Oh, absolutely," Gustave says, walking to the door. "I will be gone for at least two more hours. I would not wish to drop anything performing for both of you. Today is a special day, after all."

"See you then," Christine says, the chuckle turns to outright laughter as she buries her head on Erik's shoulder.

"He is much too wise for his years," Erik says, kissing the top of her head. "I feel like I am the child much more often than is comfortable."

"That is my fault, he was my rock, if not my confidante," Christine says. "Perhaps now, with you as my husband, he can be more little boy than his mother's best friend."

"And so it is – we are truly engaged?" Erik's own laugh is still uncertain. "You are sure – I was concerned for a moment."

"I thought about being free…being just myself for a while. Then I realized you are my love and _that_ is being myself…loving you and our son – building a life together."

"I love you, Christine – I would love you no matter what you decided, but I am so happy for your choice."

"Our son has granted us two hours to celebrate our engagement and I do not wish to waste the time in talk." Nuzzling close to him, she murmurs, "Shall we retire to the bedroom?"

"The bedroom? Oh, yes, the bedroom, of course," Erik mutters. "Excuse my nerves, but we have not been intimate here. Are you certain?"

"Oh, yes," she says. "I am certain. I love you, you silly man."

"Well, when put that way, allow me." Standing up, he gathers her in his arms, taking a moment to kiss the lips she offers him, before starting down the hall.

"Wait," Christine says.

Erik stops short, eyes questioning, he sets her down. "You have changed your mind?"

"Not at all," she says, "but our son has the magical ability to appear unannounced and unexpected at the most inappropriate times."

"Aha!" Without further hesitation, he walks to the door and removing the _Please Do Not Disturb_ sign from the crystal doorknob, opens the door and hangs it on the outside. "That will have to do."

"He is a bright boy," Christine says, opening her arms as he returns to her.

Once again scooping her up, he says, "Now, where were we?"

* * *

*Duck tape was originally made from duck cloth and was the correct spelling in 1899 (Oxford English Dictionary), even though Word is telling me I have made a mistake. The term duct tape was introduced in that dictionary in 1965.


	10. And Speaks My Name

And Speaks My Name

Erik raises himself onto an elbow, tugging the bed clothes over his and Christine's naked bodies. Clothing strewn about in a flurry of laughter and lust lay on the floor with an odd stocking and petticoat managing to land on a chair or the footboard suggests their desire to initiate lovemaking was rushed and intense.

"This seems decidedly decadent – making love in the middle of the afternoon," Christine commented as she kicked off her shoes. "I feel quite brazen."

With an almost childlike giddiness, they attempted to maintain physical contact in any way possible as they disrobed one another.

A thumb lightly brushing a puckered pink nipple inviting him to suckle. A delicate hand undoing the fly of black tailored trousers to fondle his sac. Much more laughter than sensual murmurings. Each of them exploring and caressing areas known to be of particular sensitivity. Tender pressure applied to the bud in her secret place as pantalets are slipped down over her hips and kicked away. Stroking the silken sheath of his member freed from the confines of his drawers. And kissing, much kissing. Deeper and deeper until their play became more serious and their bodies demanded a more serious connection.

Erik gathered her in his arms, placing her gently on the bed to recline against the nest of pillows piled against the tufted headboard.

Christine opened herself completely, an invitation for him to enter her. An invitation gladly accepted. Only the barest stimulation of his long fingers was necessary to open the doorway of already moist folds allowing penetration.

They found a rhythm comfortable with their needs…adjusting to new urges driving them to climax.

Created to be together was his thought – musically and now, this, becoming one – not only physically, but spiritually. Married. He was to be married. The darkness of his soul, lifted and softened by her grace and beauty. The addition of love to passion. This must be written for her to sing. How to capture this miracle – his angel would be his bride – openly, willingly.

Sated for the moment, Christine's eyes are closed, her dark lashes dusting cheeks still flushed from her crisis, a small smile disturbed only by soft breathing of her sleep singing.

He ghosts her face with the back of his free hand. "Mrs. Saint-Rien to be."

The smile widens. "Is that your surname? I never knew." Aquamarine eyes now open with her question.

"It is. Peculiar though it might be, I do not believe there ever was a Saint Nothing, but there you have it."

"Was it written anywhere?" Tucking a pillow under her chin, she rolls over to face him.

Erik frowns. Had he ever seen the name written anywhere? Not as a child. Not that he could recall. At his young age, when still with his mother, it never occurred to him to question the name she claimed was theirs. Pere Mansart gave him his own name at birth – Erik. Madeleine had not seen fit to name him he would learn during one of the many times he eavesdropped on her conversations with others – uninvited to join in the company.

Later, when he was old enough to understand, he learned Charles had died and was being buried, even as his mother was going into labor with his son. He suspected she may have wished he had died as well. When you name something it becomes real and must be addressed. In her eyes, he was already a ghost –not surprising he would attempt to fulfill her wish, however unintended, when he took to living under the opera house.

Years later, he returned to Boscherville on a whim. His timing was awry – his horse lost a shoe, a bridge had collapsed and he was forced to change his route. Hours…mere hours and he may have been able to see her alive once more. To confront her – for that was his desire. But it was not to be. Madeleine had breathed her last breath before he arrived.

"There was a family Bible. Marie, my mother's friend, my friend –I suppose – she treated me kindly enough – insisted I take it. I learned of my inheritance, but never bothered to investigate the name. Whether it was real or not. All the papers gave my name as Erik Saint-Rien and I accepted it to be so."

"Do you still have the Bible?"

"No – it was left behind when I fled Paris. Probably destroyed by the mob along with my other belongings. I was able to retrieve very little. My first thought would not have gone to a Bible – I had already placed my valuable documents in a bank. Whatever protection I created for my house under the Palais, there was always the threat of a breach or simple rot from the dampness. Does it matter?"

"You said she was cruel. That would be cruel, denying both of you a surname."

"My dear, Christine, the lack of a legitimate surname is not something that disturbs me as you can surely suppose from the name I assigned to myself here. I come from nowhere and everywhere."

"As have I. My father and I were vagabonds."

"And so we are the perfect pair in that regard."

"I did have Pappa and a real name, though."

"You may use any name you wish – professionally it would make sense. Despite the fact that you have been absent from the stage for many years, maintaining the name Daae makes sense."

"That it is a real name is my point."

"You did not admire the wit of my moniker?"

Christine rolls her eyes. "With all due respect for your wit – no. The name is just odd – a single letter – no one has a name that is a single letter. Besides it does not make sense for me – Mister Y is mystery – Mistress Y is nonsensical – it sounds like I am a school marm."

"I am wounded. Had I known I was going to be a husband, I should have chosen some other name." he says, taking his own pillow, lying down so he is facing her. "You appear to have given this some thought."

"It is something girls do," she chuffs. "I do like Saint-Rien better than Y." Christine kisses him lightly on the forehead, running her fingers through his sparse, gray hair. "You really should not wear that wig all the time. I would be willing to wager if I massaged your scalp with some of those oils you purchased for me, more hair would grow in."

"Hair is the least of the problems with my appearance," he says. "You do not think I am debonair and handsome with the raven locks I wear?" His eyebrows waggle. "The mysterious Mr. Y. Why does he wear a mask? What is he hiding? And why does he smell of gardenias?"

"You are mocking yourself," she says, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. "You really have changed."

"I am happy – a condition that descended upon me when you arrived in New York."

"Even with all the horrible things that happened?"

"Not those – but knowing you wanted to be with me made all the difference."

"What if Raoul had not left?"

Erik rolls onto his back, folding his arms across his chest. "Must we talk of him – here in our engagement bed?" The question directed at the ceiling.

"In truth, you were always there in our marriage bed – one night of his presence here should not cause any grief."

"Always? I was always in your thoughts when you were with…him?"

"Perhaps not always, but enough to make things, shall we say difficult – for both of us."

"How so?" He turns his head to face her, relaxing an arm to reach for her hand.

"The terror never really left him – I truly believe he thought you might appear through a mirror or some such. When he discovered you instigated the trip here, his behavior became almost intolerable. He was in a constant state of distress."

"I shall be honest – I am torn between finding that amusing and feeling sorry for him," Erik says, the chill in his voice gone, his tone now light and laced with humor. "Were I a bigger man, it would not be an issue and I would be entirely apologetic, but I am not. We had a perfect situation until he reappeared in your life…and, he tried to have me killed. Let us not forget that."

"Perfect situation? What was so perfect? This is perfect, not some foolish fantasy of you hiding in walls behind mirrors."

"You did not think it was romantic?"

"Now you are being completely silly."

"You did not love me just a little?" He grins.

"Perhaps just a little – actually quite a lot, but do not let your ego get too large over that bit of confession."

"What if I had come through the mirror before the vicomte appeared?"

"We shall never know the answer to that because you did not."

"Even when you came to see me, afterwards."

"Why are you concerned about those things now?"

"I suppose I would like to believe someone…you…could care for me without my forcing myself upon you."

"Perhaps I might have, but Raoul was a strong influence. I loved him very much when I was a girl."

Will I never be free from this jealousy? Erik takes a deep breath. This is not the conversation he wishes to have – not now. Not ever. The vicomte is gone. Let him stay gone. "And he was beautiful."

"Yes. And did not terrify me – at least not at first. If you want the truth, neither one of you was terribly appealing as things progressed. You were more interested in one-upping the other, I was simply a prize. The same thing happened here. There seems to be a thing about men competing."

"Yes, I suppose that is true," he agrees. "What changed your mind – about me?"

"You let me go," she laughs. "You kept letting me go. As recently as this afternoon, you were telling me I could leave if I wished to."

"I must remember that," he says. "So, having Raoul in bed with us now. Why?"

Christine lifts herself up to confront him – their faces almost touching. "I am sorry, but I need to know – did you give him the money with an ultimatum or did he ask for it?"

"Which answer would you prefer?" His amber eyes fix on hers.

"The truth." Her stare is no less firm.

"He asked to meet with me at Jack's – the bar where we made the bet."

"And?"

"And he told me he was leaving. That he always knew you loved me, but hoped you could forget. Said you were always the perfect wife – he was the one who could not get past that night."

"So?"

"So I asked him what would make things right for him financially – I had nothing else to offer him – only a level of dignity by being able to restore his good name with his creditors."

"Any conditions?"

Erik shakes his head. "No. Neither of us had anything to barter, my dear. As we have just discussed, I learned a severe lesson that night in the 5th cellar – love must be given freely. I hurt him that night – physically and emotionally."

She flops down onto her back. "All that psychology stuff you have been studying?"

"That, yes," he says with a shrug. "But even though he won, in a sense, he lost some of his manhood."

"But he took the money – how does that sit with his manhood, as you call it?"

"I know the kind of people he was dealing with – they would think nothing of taking his life for a hundred francs, much less what he owed."

"You gave him his life back."

"In a sense. Considering what I had gained – the ability to have you near – it was a small price."

"The divorce papers?"

"He did that on his own."

"Truth?"

Erik laughs. "You are the one who loved him – you do not believe he would do this on his own?"

"Sadly, no."

"Let us just say, I asked him to do what he felt was the right thing."

"Hmmm."

"My dearest, Christine, I have no means of retribution. If he did not secure the divorce, there were other ways for us to proceed – not as easy, but not insurmountable."

"I suppose I shall have to believe you," she says, rolling over on top of him, placing a kiss on his bloated lips.

Adjusting the bedclothes, he pulls her closer, asking, "Does that mean the vicomte has left the bedroom?"

"Yes," she says with a sharp nod of her head.

"Do you suppose we have time to celebrate our upcoming nuptials before the return of our child?"

"Judging from the state of your, um, member, I expect we can accomplish satisfaction without the need for too much time." Situating herself atop his hips, she sniggers, "Yes, as I thought."

"Ah, I can have no secrets from you." He rests his hands on her hips.

"Not in this regard anyway."

"You are a vixen, Mademoiselle Daae."

"I believe I should like being addressed as Madame Saint-Rien."

"So be it."

"You are a lucky man, Monsieur Saint-Rien."

"On that we are agreed."


	11. There Inside Your Mind

(A/N – Thanks, as always, to everyone who is following this story. A special thank you to rscoil for sharing some ideas she had about the relationship between Meg and Erik. Her suggestions helped give me a direction for this chapter. I hope she likes what I've done with it.)

Erik balances on the sliding ladder poised against the wall of books taking up a corner of the Eyrie. Fingers dance across the cache of bound leather, pulling out one at a time – looking it over before either tossing it down to Darius or shaking his head, returning the reject to the case. The process goes on for several minutes, Darius catching each book or binder Erik cares to drop into his outstretched arms.

Satisfied with his choices, he steps down, carrying a binder of loose papers. Taking the books from Darius, he sets them down on the chess table – part of a reading area set in front of the bookcase. He opens the binder and removes several sheets of paper: _A Case of Successful Treatment by Hypnotism_. This is probably the first piece of Freud's writing I ever read," Erik says, handing the treatise to the young Persian. "I discovered, later than I may have hoped, my voice alone could produce a hypnotic state in some people."

"So what Meg said was true – that when you were called the Phantom of the Opera – you were able to influence people with your voice?"

The question takes him by surprise, he shivers, a cold sweat trickles down his back – his wig and mask decidedly uncomfortable from perspiration. Finding his voice, he says, "Meg told you that, did she?" Taking a seat in one of the armchairs, he pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his black satin-faced vest to wipe his brow.

It never occurred to him that Christine might tell anyone about how she was enticed to his home beneath the opera house. Unsure of how aware_ she _truly was. He suspected Raoul knew – having heard his attempt and failure to control her that night in the graveyard. Would this be something either of them would share with Meg?

Darius nods, examining the stack of books, seemingly oblivious to Erik's discomfort. "She said there were times, once you arrived here when she found herself doing things as if you willed them– removing more and more of her costume during the song _Bathing Beauty _untilthe last night she removed her blouse entirely_."_

"She exposed herself to the audience?

"Yes." Darius frowns, shifting his focus from the books to Erik. "You did not know?"

"Of course, I did not know. Why would I want her to do that – much less incite her to do that?" Erik shakes his head in confusion. His mind races, a sense of panic overwhelms him. The only time since he left Paris did he use his voice in such a way was when he went to Christine's dressing room before the performance – to convince her to sing. Never did he exert any pressure on Meg in such a way.

"I seldom watched her perform, much less gave her any such direction. I left them…Meg and Adele…to create the shows and choreography. I hated the music, but one does not perform opera at Coney Island." He looks up at Darius, who is striding back and forth in front of him. "We were competing with Oscar Hammerstein's brother and Ziegfeld. Adele and Meg would venture to the city to view their productions and develop the numbers from what they saw there."

"Your voice itself is quite hypnotic," Darius insists. "Nadir told me you could hold an audience spellbound when you sang."

"Only when it was my choice."

When did things go awry with Meg? Whatever possessed her to disrobe on stage? He assumes what Darius says is true. Much as he would like to blame Adele – being with Christine was informing him of how much influence he had on others. Seeing the world through the eyes of someone who loved and was beloved.

Surely she could not have thought of him as more than a close friend…an uncle. In the early days, before he heard Christine's voice, creating pranks was a game for both of them. The laughter they shared at Carlotta's dismay when he put the rats in her wig. Partners in crime. She was a child – he often felt a child himself at these times.

Even after his attention was devoted to Christine's lessons, when the pranks took a more dangerous turn, it was Meg who seemed to take pleasure in keeping the rest of the company stirred up about the Opera Ghost. It continued to be a kind of game with her – giving her power over the other dancers and the managers. The element of play between them disappeared – as did their camaraderie. Christine absorbed him – body and soul.

What had she said on the pier that dreadful night? _Christine…always Christine_. She could not have hated Christine then, could she? Adele watched over Christine at his insistence. They were family. Meg even told Christine not to be afraid of him. But Meg arrived at the house just before the mob… No, he would not believe…No.

"He said you were not even aware of it," Darius continues, his tone accusatory.

Erik exams the smug face, the smile teasing full lips. Eyes so like Nadir's…deep green, challenging him. Enjoying the tumult he sees in front of him. Of course he was smitten with the girl…woman. What else has she told him? Anger overtakes embarrassment. His own golden eyes turn feral. I shall not fall prey to a young upstart, however righteous he believes himself to be. His sneer answers the younger man's smirk.

Darius draws back.

"How dare you come here and accuse me of such behavior. What tales about my life in Persia are you filling her head with?"

"None. I tell her nothing. Nadir tells me nothing - just what I told you. They were words of admiration. I did not mean…"

"Then why are you standing over me…blaming me for actions I was neither aware of, nor desired?" Erik growls, rising to his feet. "You know nothing of my feelings toward Meg. Did I think about her as a mate? Once. She did not know. But once. When we first arrived in America. There was a small problem, my face made her physically ill – something I have grown accustomed to in my life. It was a momentary whim and I never held her response against her – she was my family – she did not run away or shun me. To suggest I encouraged _her_ to sell herself is beyond ridiculous."

His hands ball into fists, nails biting into the palms of his hands, willing his anger – the pain of that recollection – to ebb. The surge of adrenalin recedes. Good. The fever of rage was leaving. The boy was adept – he would give him credit for that. Clever…perhaps not even realizing how clever. Still, it would not do to create an enemy in him, not when his life was finally becoming normal.

The fear on Darius' face recedes in proportion to Erik's calm enough to say, "I am sorry."

"You are a man in love. I understand that only too well," Erik says, moving to the armoire incorporated into the bookcase. He removes a crystal decanter of brandy and two snifters. "Brandy?"

Darius shakes his head, "No. My faith…"

"Right. Our mutual friend is not quite so devout." One goblet is returned to the cabinet. Erik pours himself two fingers into the other, and returns to his arm chair. "Please sit down. This conversation has taken quite a turn and I prefer we be on the same level when speaking to one another."

"Thank you," Darius says, taking a seat. "I must apologize again. I should know better than to make assumptions."

"Listening to someone without judgment is the nature of therapy, is it not?" Erik says. "However, what people say is always made through their own filter. Their truth is not necessarily _the_ truth. This is something I am only now becoming aware of myself."

"_True_ enough," Darius risks a light laugh, color returning to his face.

Erik swirls the pale brown liquid in the snifter before taking a sip. "How is she doing with her therapy? She seemed well at Christmas."

"Better, I think," Darius says. "You know I cannot discuss anything with you. I have already said too much."

They sit in silence for a moment.

"Well then, I suspect you have other engagements," Erik says rising from the chair. "I think these books will interest you, feel free to borrow them. There are more when you are finished."

"If you are certain. Thank you for entrusting them to me," he says picking up the stack Erik selected for him.

"My pleasure – I am pleased they will be of use, not simply collecting dust." Waving an arm at the wall of books, he says, "I forgot how large my collection was...if you will forgive me, I have some work that demands my attention."

"Of course," Darius says, hesitating a moment, but Erik does not turn around to face him. "Good-bye, then."

"Yes, good-bye." Erik's focus is directed at the bookcase, eyes narrowed…he waves his hand absently in dismissal. Once he hears the door close, he moves the ladder to the far wall, climbing up once again, he removes a black tome tucked in the corner of the top shelf, nearly invisible from the floor. "So I did retrieve it."

Stepping off the ladder, he carries the book to the chair and sits down. The leather binding is worn, but the gold legend on the cover is still intact – _Holy Bible._ "More surprises in store?"

At the sound of the door opening, he puts the book down and stands up to watch a slim woman approach through the dim hallway. "Christine, is that you? You will never believe what I found…"

"No. Not Christine." A feminine voice responds, deeper than Christine's, rougher – weary.

"Meg? I did not expect you."

"I was looking for Darius," she says, moving into the room from the shadows. "He told me he would be here to pick up some books."

Although he found her familiar, she held the air of a stranger, looking both older and younger than she did at the party. If he was truly honest with himself, he actually gave her little attention that day – despite his wish to make a peace of sorts. The wound of Gustave was too new. His own shame too deep.

Blonde hair had been curled and he recalled she had rouge on her cheeks and lips. Now the bright curls were contained in braids, worn like a crown, much the same way Adele groomed her own plaits. Her skin always fair is absent of color, dark shadows framing blue eyes. Yet her smile seems real.

"He left just moments ago." He offers his own smile in return, unsure of what to say. The past half hour awakened ghosts of their past he has not yet processed. "You look well."

"I look terrible."

"Not when you smile." Relief floods through him at her acceptance of his compliment.

"I was not certain what I would feel when I saw you – I had not expected to come up here, but when Darius was not at our appointed meeting place, I took a deep breath and decided to see if he was still with you."

"I see." Indicating one of the armchairs with a hand, he says, "Please, sit down. Brandy."

"No, better I not indulge," she laughs lightly, unfastening her brown cloak – another dull color diminishing the light she once radiated, before taking the offered seat.

"I am sorry." The words spoken in tandem.

Their eyes focused forward, unable to look at one another. Gentle laughter from both despite the discomfort.

"There was a time when we could laugh easily with one another," she says. "I miss that."

Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he says, "Gluing Carlotta's shoes to the floor…"

"I loved when you put the rats in her wig…"

Erik nods. "She was certainly upset about that."

"You could not stop laughing."

"Nor could you. What about the sneezing powder in M. Andre's snuff box?"

"Yes. Yes. My very favorite was always how you managed to collect your money – those silly managers never figured it out."

"Be grateful your mother was so adept and they were so stupid – those funds helped finance Phantasma."

"And our care for the times in between leaving Paris and coming here. Maman was always concerned the money would run out." Meg says, beginning to rock back and forth, her eyes unfocused.

Erik senses she is no longer present but getting lost in memories.

"_What he wants is impossible, _she would say. _He is spending a fortune on costumes. The city will not allow that sort of building._ _Boarding for the freaks? _It never stopped. _Make yourself useful. Always that – make yourself useful. He is a man, act like a woman. He will forget her. _But you never did. You never did. _They are with their bastard. We are nothing now. He will leave us after all we have done._"

"Meg. Stop. Come back. I am here." The sharp crack as he claps his hands jolts her.

"What?" she says, looking up at him – her eyes glassy and unfocused. "I get lost sometimes."

"I am sorry I abandoned you."

"You met Christine."

"Yes. I met Christine and my life was no longer mine."

"I know. Oh, god, how well I know." The laughter accompanying the words hold the memory of tears shed and as yet unshed.

"She loves you."

"I love her, too. Through all of this, I still love both of you." Sighing, she rests he elbows on her knees. "I was just so lonely…losing all of you."

"I understand."

"You, of all people would." She reaches her hand across the chess table to touch his arm.

Lightly touching her fingers before pulling his arm away, he says, "Darius seems a nice man."

"Sorry," she says, pulling her hand back into her lap. "He is – we are becoming friends."

The sound of the door opening and footsteps approaching shifts their attention.

"I found this handsome young gentleman at the foot of the stairs looking lost and forlorn," Christine announces, walking toward the library, Darius in hand. "Does he belong to anyone here?"

Meg jumps up from her seat, running to them, taking Darius by the arm. A flush of pink displaces her pale pallor, the heaviness she carries lightened by his appearance and the smile he gives her. "I am sorry, I came up here looking for you."

"I needed to put the books down that Mr. Y gave me, so I loaded them in the automobile."

"Did you get what you wanted?" Christine asks. "I am certain Erik was willing to fill your ears with his own ideas if the books appeared insufficient."

"Not true," Erik says. "The young man actually taught me a few things during our visit."

"Then you must be a real magician..." Christine says.

"Uncle Erik knows everything," Meg adds, taking Christine's arm, cradling herself between her friends. Both women giggle at their little joke.

"Uncle?" Noting return of the honorarium, Erik eyes find Christine's.

Tears threaten to flow, her smile as bright as he has even seen it.

"Your uncle is to be an object of ridicule?"

"Yes!" They shout, their giggles become outright laughter.

Despite his natural reserve, the merriment of the women is infectious and Darius joins in.

Playing to his audience, Erik takes the levity a step further by singing, "_Beware the Phantom of the Opera_," bringing on yet another burst of laughter.

"_Beware the Phantom of the Opera," _sing the others, Darius completely off-key, inviting a snigger from Erik and fits of coughing from the women.

"Best you stick with analyzing dreams, young man," Erik says, "You seem to be lacking any talent for musical interpretation."

"Erik, that is unkind," Christine says, controlling her amusement.

"But true," Erik says. "In this case, we all share the same truth – is that not so, Darius?"

"I am afraid so."

Meg and Christine share a quizzical look.

"We were discussing how one person's truth is not always the truth of another."

"Psychology talk?" Meg asks.

"Yes. An event can take place, but each person involved will form a different interpretation or truth based on their own prejudices and point of view."

"In this case, however, we all know the truth of Darius' singing voice," Christine says.

"Correct. He does not have one."

The serious talk is abandoned in return for more laughter, although each pair of eyes…golden, aquamarine, blue and deep green suggest a deeper knowledge of how the different truths each one brought to this day have been altered.

"My stomach is actually feeling the need for food," Erik says, patting his cummerbund. "Shall we take luncheon in the restaurant?"

"Wonderful idea," says Christine. "Meg? Darius?"

"Yes," Meg responds. "I should like that very much, sharing a meal with friends. It has been a while."

"Good then," Erik says. "Let us go and challenge the chef with our heart's desire from the menu."

"Lamb stew is my favorite," Darius says, as they walk toward the door.

"Roast chicken for me." Meg takes his arm, resting her head on his shoulder.

"You are hungry?" Christine asks, looking askance at Erik.

"Surprisingly, yes," he responds. "However, I should like to retrieve something lost with Meg – when we were friends. I was told by a very beautiful soprano that breaking bread with someone warmed their hearts and many hurts could be healed with a bowl of hot soup."

Christine laughs. "Pappa always said that. So often we did not have enough to eat and met others on the road like ourselves – struggling to get by. Tempers would sometimes flare, but if a bit of bread or cheese was offered, everyone seem to calm down. Hot soup was a special treat. Instead of being robbed, we found friendship."

"Your pappa was a wise man."

"Yes, I trusted you because I trusted him."

"I am pleased I might finally be living up to his...and your expectations of how an angel is supposed to behave."

"You are," Christine laughs, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Come they are already out the door."

Grabbing his frock coat from the rack at the door, he puts on his fedora but stops short of following Christine into the hall. "Wait," he says, turning back.

"What is it?"

"I found my mother's Bible."


	12. One Love, One Lifetime

One Love, One Lifetime

"Gustave is settled in, then?" Erik asks, ushering Christine into her suite at the hotel. "I always have these imaginings of him jumping out from behind a settee or closed door when I am intent on kissing his mother."

"Understandably so." Christine removes her cloak and bonnet – hanging them in the carved oak armoire next to the door. "No – he is not in here," she giggles. Holding her hands out to take his outerwear, she places it next to hers. "Mask and wig, too."

His look is doubtful. "But Gustave – I still…am…not…sure…comfortable."

"No need to be concerned." Pushing away the hand shielding the mask, she slips it off along with the wig, placing both on a shelf, taking a moment to smooth his rumpled hair before closing the cupboard door. "Yes, he is settled in – Miss Fleck and he have become great friends…she invited him to dine and spend the evening and overnight with her – with our permission – which I gave enthusiastically."

"The boy has amazing compassion – so like yours," Erik says, taking her arm as they walk to loveseat. He sets the Bible set down on the coffee table in front of them. "As with most of our so-called freaks, Esther has spent a lifetime being shunned and ridiculed. For this youngster to be so accepting and loving is something quite new to her."

"More than compassion – he likes, I dare say, loves her," Christine says. "Compassion is one thing – but still suggests differences and an element of judgment. He may feel compassion for her life experiences…as I do yours, but he loves her. What is the Italian word – sympatico?"

Erik puts an arm around her, leaning in to kiss her welcoming lips. "When did you become so wise?"

"I had ten years to think about different kinds of love," she say, resting her head on his shoulder. "All during our time together…back then in Paris…my feelings for you were in turmoil. I did not know what I felt.

"In moments like this, when we talk or when I think back on these past years, I wonder what my father might think. He promised an angel. In my loneliness – missing him so and never really living in normal society – too many ghost stories, too many fairy tales – I clung to the idea of an angel coming to teach me. When Raoul returned, well…." A harsh laugh startles both of them.

"You find what happened in those days funny?" Erik asks, looking askance at a serene face, untroubled by the incongruity – a furrow deepening his already distorted brow.

"I was so young and naïve."

"And I took advantage of you." Arm in hand, he leads her to the settee.

"Erik, for all our difference in years, you were just as naïve as I. Neither of us knew how to communicate with other people, so we had our fantasy – our little game. If anyone deceived me it was my father."

"What?"

"My father told me there was an angel of music. My father filled my head with fantastical stories. If I believed you to be the Angel of Music, it was because I trusted him. I trusted him, so I trusted you." After removing a silk tassled pillow from the corner of the sofa, setting it on the floor, she sits down, smoothing her skirt of grey wool.

"I never heard you speak of your father with anything other than adoration." Nodding toward the kitchen, he asks, "Tea?"

"Thank you, no," she responds, shaking her head. "Between the soup and the tea we had at luncheon, I feel as though I could float."

Erik chuckles. "It was a rather watery assortment of foods – soups, stew, tea and gelees."

As I said – I had a long to consider the many faces of love. My father meant well, but he left a working farm after my mother died and we became wandering minstrels. I was a little girl – what sort of life is that?"

"You are angry with him?" he asks, flopping down in the leather arm chair he installed in the hotel suite for his comfort, crossing his legs.

"No – never angry – but so many myths were shattered once I was able to assess my life. Becoming a mother would no longer allow me to pretend his love was perfect and pure. Never would I put Gustave through what I experienced with my father. There were any number of times I wanted to leave Raoul, but…"

"I am sorry," he says, leaning forward, his hands pressed on his knees. "I was so selfish – so terribly selfish. Had I known, I would have moved mountains. But I should have suspected. Damn it, Christine, I am not worthy of you."

Aquamarine eyes flash – serenity is overtaken by annoyance. "Stop it – you are pitying yourself again. Guilt is a worthless emotion, it makes _you_ feel better, but does absolutely nothing for me. How many times must I tell you, you are forgiven? If I am the one injured – why must I comfort you? I accept my responsibility for what happened. I do not want every conversation we have about the past ending with _me_ reassuring _you_."

The verbal slap stuns him. "Have you been reading the psychology books?" he asks, getting to his feet. "Dare I apologize?"

"No." A wave of her hand dismisses his question. "No more apologies and no, I have not been reading any psychology books. You cannot tease your way out of this. Sometimes you are too clever by half. It is a very bad habit of yours. "Speaking of which – what happened with Meg today?"

Erik stiffens. "Disturbing. Things Darius told me about Meg believing I was controlling her, when I hardly considered her at all."

Keeping her eyes focused on the French doors directly in front of the sofa, watching a new flurry of snow, bright against the darkening sky. Shivering slightly, she removes the afghan a reflection of the waves of the ocean visible through the French doors, folded over the arm of the sofa.

"Cold?" In a few strides, he is beside her, draping the blanket over her shoulders.

"The snow – just the sight of it creates a chill. I love it, but too many nights spent without shelter." Burrowing into the soft wool, she says, "I need to know some things of your past."

"All right – that is certainly fair. We have the Bible now…"

"What I want to know has nothing to do with the Bible or your mother or other past horrors – those I will learn over time as you feel able to share them."

"Meg and Adele?" Matter of fact.

She nods. "How long have you known them?"

Sighing deeply, he moves away from her to pace the room, his fingers saying more than words. After a long moment, he exclaims. "Dear God. Of course you did not know." He squeezes his eyes shut, opening them slowly before answering. "Almost from the moment I came to live under the Opera House."

"So Meg was a child?" Her tone is measured – cool and deliberate, willing her mind to follow suit. Why had she not known – through her own questioning? There were certainly enough clues.

"Yes. They helped me with chores – shopping, running errands." The pacing becomes more intense, his arms a furry of unexpressed emotion. One might think he was conducting a symphony.

"You and she played games?"

"Games? Yes, we played many games – she was a lonely little girl. Dancing was all she did. The other girls stayed away from her because of Adele. Mostly we imagined tricks to play on the others. Two outcasts…" The words come out in a rush.

"The pranks directed at Carlotta and the Managers?"

"Yes. She never told you I take it? Of course she did not – had any of us talked to one another, much of our sorrows might never have existed."

Christine shakes her head. "No, she never spoke of her life outside of dancing." In recalling her days at the Palais Garnier, Meg was always on the periphery. Her best friend – her only friend really, but even so – a major part of her life was kept hidden. She supposed Erik asked…told the Girys to keep his existence private. "This helps me better understand so much."

"It never seemed relevant – then." He walks to the sideboard, bracing his hands against the elegantly carved wood. "A brandy? To warm you?" Without waiting for her response, he pours two snifters and carries them to the settee, handing one to her, then returns to the window, staring out into the night, sipping on his drink.

"I thought this might be a good time to talk about her," she says, swirling the amber liquid before taking a drink. "You looked…unsettled when I arrived – more so now, however. I wonder at your morning with both of them."

"Did you ever tell her about our lessons…about any feeling I was controlling you?" Erik asks.

"Is that what she said?"

"It is what Darius told me she said."

"When you sang to me, I did feel in thrall to you. But it was not unpleasant, nor was it something I wanted to reject. Something stirred inside me that was beautiful and frightening all at the same time. What you wanted, I wanted."

Turning away from the window, he faces her. "You never spoke to her about any of this?"

The edge in his voice troubles her. What _had_ she told Meg? "When I sang – the night of my debut – I understood what we created together through my lessons. Meg told me I was perfect and that is how it felt to me. Despite her telling the managers I could play the role, she was surprised, which was your plan. I told her how my father promised me an angel of music. How it frightened me. She told me not to be afraid. She never explained why, but I trusted her." Why had she not thought to ask the tiny ballerina why she should not fear the voice in the mirror? Why had Meg not told her the Angel of Music was a real person?

"Afterwards – you never spoke of it again with her?"

Christine shakes her head. "Raoul returned and I began visiting you for our lessons. I am afraid Meg took a much smaller part of my life." I abandoned her and judging from what Erik is saying – he abandoned her as well. She lost both of us.

"I think she remembered that story and believed I was guiding her in the same way."

"I do not understand."

Pressing his back against door frame, he takes another sip of the brandy before responding. "There was a very brief time, after we came to America, when I considered asking her to wed. You were in France – we were a little family…the three of us. I was not so blind I did not see she might be interested in such an arrangement – Adele was always pushing us toward one another. One night she came to a performance and saw my face for the first time. In all our years, she had never seen me…"

A rush of adrenalin shoots through her body, her face flushes from the heat, she holds up a hand, "Stop. Stop talking. You considered marrying her?"

"For a moment – only a moment." The snifter is slammed onto the sideboard. "Damn it, Christine, you were gone. I was earning money by displaying my face. They were all I had. I was tired of being alone."

"Good God, Erik, did she know this?"

"No. Of course not."

"The topic never came up?"

"Only from Adele, as I said, intimating I was a man with, um, certain needs." His runs his hands through his sparse hair.

"What happened – the night she came to see you, um, perform?" Calm restored, at least in her voice, she leans forward, placing her own glass on the coffee table before folding her hands in her lap.

"She became violently ill. Never would she see me so exposed again – she never attended another performance. I was always very careful to have my mask on once I stopped performing. I saw the truth – she was like everyone else…except you."

"That must have been painful for you."

"Not so much as another time," he says ruefully. "In this instance, however, it was part of my act, so she should not have been surprised when I removed my mask…I asked her not come."

The idea of Erik desiring or loving someone else never occurred to her. Despite fearing his response, Christine asks, "Do you suppose you might have proceeded with a marriage had she not become ill?"

Erik raises an eyebrow. "That is a moot question, my dear," he says, "but deserves an honest answer."

The sound of her heart thrums in her ears, breathing is difficult. "And that would be?"

"No." The answer absolute. "It would have been incestuous – I was Uncle Erik. I did not see her as a woman." For the first time since the conversation began, his eyes brighten. "Besides, I was still in love with you."

Relief floods through her – whatever emotions of discontent she felt earlier vanish with the knowledge of his seemingly, never wavering love for her. How selfish she was during those past days. If he deceived her, than so did she deceive him. With a brilliant smile, she motions for him to join her again on the settee, holding the afghan, so he can slip in beside her. "So what happened – why did she believe you would come to love her?"

"Thank you, it is chilly in the room. I should light a fire in addition to the radiator, but this is much cozier," he says, getting comfortable, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "Adele – again – it would seem. When we were alone today for that short time – we talked of the past but as we reminisced, she talked about her mother, as if in a trance – rambling rambling on about men and licenses – much like the night on the pier. "

"We must tread carefully then – she is quite fragile. Her anger is deep. I do think, however, our presence in her life again might be helpful. Darius appears to be a good friend – perhaps more, but you are…were Uncle Erik, as you said – at least when she was a child."

"You want to include her in our family?"

"She is already our family," Christine says. "I do not suggest she move in, but you must find a place for her at Phantasma – she looked like an old woman today – drab and worn. At least until Darius appeared. Dancing always gave her life – maybe something not so brassy…"

"Well, I want to introduce opera here – why not ballet? I think I should speak with her doctor, though. I am not as forgiving as you are. I know the rage arising from rejection and, to be honest, I am not certain I am the best person for her to lean on. That did not work very well in the past. I am both happy and grateful for Darius – he was quite the defending lover," he laughs. "I suspect he will be more healing for her than either one of us."

"Meg having a beau is a great relief." Never were her words quite so sincere. "I have to admit, I felt jealous when you spoke of possibly marrying her."

"For only a moment…"

"Even so. I find I do not wish to share you with anyone – not being with you was almost unbearable. I prayed so often for you to return or at least write…something."

"This has me feeling we must be cautious. That said, she shall not want for any of her living needs. She more than earned her share of the company – especially now that I understand the sacrifices she made. I think we should both meet with her doctor as to how we can help. As you so charmingly advised me earlier guilt is a useless emotion and compassion is judgment."

"I should know better than to argue with you," Christine smiles up at him, "We have so much damage to repair, do we not? It is not so simple." Snuggling closer to him, she says, "Hold me tight, talk to me of our future. I am so weary of the past."

Kissing her forehead, he says, "I am quite content with the present, if only we could have this always."

"Do not forget about Gustave."

"My beautiful son. No, I shall not forget Gustave – as if he would let me," Erik laughs. "I do believe, however, I would be forgiven if my undivided attention be given his mother for the rest of this day."

"His mother would most definitely forgive you."

"Then it is settled," he says, gathering her closer to him, undoing her hair pins, allowing her curls to flow over her shoulders.

"Wait," she says, reaching for the black book on the coffee table. "The Bible – we were going to look at the Bible."

"No need," Erik says, drawing her back to him, caressing her cheek, neck and shoulder with the back of his hand,

"_If you do not know,_

_O most beautiful among women,_

_follow in the tracks of the flock,_

_and pasture your young goats_

_beside the shepherds' tents." _

He whispers in her ear.

"The Song of Solomon," she says, laughing lightly.

"_I compare you, my love,_

_to a mare among Pharaoh's chariots._

_Your cheeks are lovely with ornaments,_

_your neck with strings of jewels."_

The words breathed against the nape of her neck.

"_We will make for you ornaments of gold,_

_studded with silver."_

His fingers toy with the wisps of hair framing her face,

"_While the king was on his couch,_

_my nard gave forth its fragrance._

_My beloved is to me a sachet of myrrh_

_that lies between my breasts._

_My beloved is to me a cluster of henna blossoms_

_in the vineyards of Engedi."_

Taking her part in the song, she unbuttons his shirt, running her hand over his chest.

"_Behold, you are beautiful, my love;_

_behold, you are beautiful;_

_your eyes are doves."_

His lips explore the area between her breasts. Her own fragrance neither nard nor myrrh, but his favorite gardenia and a scent totally her own.

In a kiss reminiscent of their first, she holds his face in her hands, pressing her mouth to his.

"_Behold, you are beautiful, my beloved, truly delightful."_

"_Behold _you_ are beautiful, my beloved, truly delightful."_

"Church will never be the same again – what with the memory of this afternoon and your rendition of Solomon," she laughs. How many stories would it take to reveal their respective histories? "This is preferable to the proper ways of praying. I am surprised you know this or any book – although why I should be surprised at anything you do, I do not know."

"When one is alone most of one's life, a book is always a welcome companion, with the exception of an instrument to play, of course," he says. "I agree, we must make this our method of honoring the Lord, I think."

"And we need not wait for Sundays."

"Our own holy communion."

"Erik!"

"Is that blasphemy?"

"Possibly."

"Well, I am certain it is not the gravest sin I have ever committed."

"Probably not."

"Then I shall not apologize, but will continue the pursuit of our personal holiness," he says, gathering her onto his lap. "I am certain this is what Solomon and his bride had in mind as well."

*The Song of Songs, which is Solomon's 1. Solomon and His Bride Delight in Each Other


	13. Love Is A Curious Thing

Love Is A Curious Thing

"Christine?" Erik calls out, closing the door to Christine's suite behind him. "Gustave?" He continues past the sitting room to the area set up with a small dining room table and four chairs. The table sports a white linen table cloth and is set for three with the Limoges china, creamy white with vines of pink roses, thin line of gold banding each piece. The dinnerware part of the return of "things" Raoul insisted belonged to Christine and Gustave.

"_I cannot believe none of the dishes shattered. Of course, Albert – the butler – would do his best, but this is quite amazing," Christine said when Erik pried the wooden crate open._

"_These were yours?"_

"_Yes, I purchased the set with my earnings from the opera house. The flowers reminded me of my mother – she loved roses."_

"_So not wedding china?"_

"_No – the Chagny's had more china than I could ever imagine," she said, taking one piece after another from the box, dusting it off with a linen cloth before stacking in on the coffee table. "We used the set once – for a birthday celebration. After that, it was consigned to a closet where my keepsakes were housed."_

"_You were given a closet for your household items?"_

"_Most were not up to the standards of Raoul's sisters. They were quite particular," Christine says, "I suspect these other crates hold linens, crystal and cutlery."_

"_I do not understand."_

"_During the time of our engagement, I used what money I had to buy a trousseau – Raoul contributed some funds, if I did not have quite enough – he was very generous in that way." The past vivid in her mind, her eyes mist at the recollection. "I planned to embroider our initials on the linens, but never got around to fulfilling that intention."_

"_You lost interest?"_

"_In a sense – all of our linens – those from the family – were already embroidered. There was no need and, to be honest, I no longer cared. My feelings had changed and our marriage was never more than a farce – even though we both tried. _

"_I suppose these could be your trousseau for our nuptials?"_

"_Yes."_

"_I must give the Vicomte credit – I might have just tossed out the lot and good riddance."_

"_You would have created a shrine," she laughs._

"_I suppose you are right."_

A linen napkin draws his attention "E/C" is embroidered on the corner – each napkin bears the same lettering. The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. Snatching a cookie from one of the serving plates, he calls out again, "Christine…Gustave…where are you?"

"Do not be stealing the treats," Christine scolds, entering the room, putting an aquamarine earring on a naked ear. "There are broken ones in the kitchen for you and Gustave."

"This is what you are serving Adele and Meg?"

"No – the hotel chef is preparing luncheon, but I did make the cookies for dessert."

"Well, you have outdone yourself – with both the cookies and dressing the table," he says, licking his fingers. "When did you monogram the serviettes?"

"You are very aware I have quite a bit of free time on my hands – I thought we were going to begin recording some of our music."

"Papa Y, Papa Y," Gustave calls out as he runs from his room, pulling on his woolen jacket. "I am coming. I am not late am I? I did not mean to be, I was reading this article on how to get better sound on the record for violins and the human voice. There are all sorts of writings in one of the boxes from Pere Raoul. I forgot I even had them."

"Slow down. We are going shopping – so there is no time table to be adhered to," Erik replies. "In any event I believe I am early – using my time to sample your mother's fine cookies."

"She let you have one?"

"No," Christine says, "he stole one, like a thief in the night."

"We get the broken and burnt ones," Gustave says. "There is a whole bowl full of those in the kitchen."

"Not an entire bowl – and the broken ones are perfectly baked."

"Maman has been baking all morning. We have muffins, too."

"Gustave, stop." Through pursed lips, she explains, "I was unable to get the temperature correct and everything seemed to burn, even though I followed Chef's recipe to the letter."

"One is not expected to be perfect at everything in life, my dear," Erik says, placing a kiss on her cheek.

Gustave giggles, "Cookies and popcorn are Maman's specialties.

"I can cook eggs…and toast."

"Along with the best of them," Erik adds. "Your scrambled eggs are superb."

Gustave grabs a cookie for himself and dances around the table. "All her eggs are scrambled."

Christine shakes her fist at him. "You stop that, young man." Unable to control her laughter, she adds, "I make good sandwiches."

"So what are you serving the ladies?"

Casting a side eye at their son, she says, "Chef is making us a chicken pudding with mashed turnips. With the weather still so cold, I thought something hearty would suit. Meg is so thin, she ate almost nothing when we dined…I wanted a very homey meal."

"Sounds delicious" Erik kisses her again, then says, "Young man, it is time we are off – your mother's guests will be arriving shortly."

"What are you shopping for?"

"Papa Y and I have a new idea for our gramophone and we need to do research."

"What sort of research?"

"Um, materials – parts – this and that."

"You are not planning anything illegal, are you?"

"Not at all," Erik harrumphs. "This is purely scientific exploration."

"You will not introduce our son to the sort of mischief you created in past years," Christine scolds.

"What sort of mischief, Papa Y?" Gustave looks up at his father, eyes wide and excited.

"See what you started," Erik says. "Have no fear, my dear one, I shall not have our son playing pranks."

"What kind of pranks did you play?" The boy presses, tugging on Erik's sleeve.

"Silly things."

"The rats in her wig was the worst." Christine covers her mouth, although her eyes sparkle with delight at the memory.

"You did that?"

"I am rather fond of that memory – she performed all the better for the stimulation." Erik smirks.

Even Christine has to laugh. "True enough. I suspect that was the first real emotion she expressed in many years."

"What else did you do?" Gustave is beside himself with excitement, unable to keep his feet still.

"Never mind, Gustave. Those days are past – no more tricks." Christine buttons his coat and wraps his muffler around his neck.

"Time to go." Erik leans over to give Christine a kiss on her cheek. "Give your mother a kiss. We shall have our lunch now in the dining room." Erik grabs Gustave's newsboy cap from the armoire, making sure the ear flaps are down and plops it on his head. "Come, let us away."

"Maybe we could have the chicken pudding, too," Gustave says. "I love chicken pudding."

"Then you shall have some."

There is a knock on the door.

Christine opens the door to Meg and Adele. Once again she reflects on how Meg seems to have aged. Wearing the same braided hair style – the two women look more to be sisters than mother and child.

In many ways Adele presented herself as the younger of the two, despite the walking stick. Meg carries herself so differently from the girl she knew in Paris. Adele is garbed in her typical black with Meg in a drab shirtwaist – white blouse and brown skirt - a green and brown plaid cloak covering her shoulders. Both wear velveteen bonnets, a fur muff on each of their wrists.

Christine feels she may have erred in choosing the pale green silk afternoon dress with a lace bib to welcome her friends, her own hair, pulled up in the popular Gibson style. Despite the muted color, her gown might well have been a scarlet ball gown.

"Ladies, enjoy your meal – Christine tells me she planned something quite tasty with a special treat for dessert," Erik says.

"You are not joining us?" Adele asks, walking past the couple into the room. "Come, come, Meg, you are blocking their way – both of them seem anxious to be gone."

"We are making a gramophone and Papa Y and I are going shopping for the parts," Gustave says. "I am glad we were still here when you arrived – to say hello, however."

"You have raised a most gracious child, Christine," Adele says, smiling at Gustave.

"As did you, Madame," Christine responds. "I am so pleased you accepted my invitation."

Meg sniffs. "You already have a gramophone, Erik."

"We are going to be recording Maman singing and me playing my violin so we need to make alterations. The gramophone we have does not record very well. You have to stick your head inside the horn for anything to be picked up."

"I see," Meg says. "I cannot imagine why you would want a recording when you have the performer as part of your household."

"We are going to sell the records," Gustave says, grinning at Christine.

"We are also considering recording some of the songs from the midway shows, if you are interested, Meg," Erik jumps in, placing a hand on Gustave's shoulder. "We wanted it to be a surprise."

Christine nods in agreement. "When I went to see Mr. Hammerstein, he told me his brother actually attended the performance that night to see and hear you, Meg."

Meg cocks her head. "Me?"

"Yes, he has vaudeville shows and heard about your performances here," Christine says. "I was going to tell you at lunch today, but the sooner you know the better."

"Is this true?" Meg's eyes find Erik.

"That is what Christine told me, so I would say it was true," he replies. "It was her idea to make a recording of you singing one of your songs."

"Well, that sounds like something you might want to do, Meg," Adele says. "This is certainly something to be considered."

"Yes, well – you talk about it at lunch – Christine is the person Hammerstein spoke to – Gustave and I are simply the technicians," Erik says, pushing Gustave out the door. "Come, son, we are going to be late."

"You just said shopping was not done on a schedule."

"For lunch – we have a reservation for lunch – we do not want to upset the schedule in the restaurant." Glancing down the hallway, he says, "Ah – here is _your_ meal now."

A uniformed waiter appears next to him, pushing a wooden cart carrying several plates covered with metal domes.

"Mr. Y?"

Erik shakes his head, stepping into the hall, tugging Gustave along. "Madame Daae with direct you."

Christine steps forward. "Yes, please bring the food in – the table is set." Waving her hand toward the dining table, she says, "Adele, Meg, you can place your outer garments in the armoire, then, please – take a seat." To Erik and Gustave, "Enjoy your shopping trip."

"Adele, Meg – good to see you. Enjoy your meal," Erik says, tossing them a wave over Christine's head.

"_Au revoir_," Gustave adds before his mother closes the door on the two of them.

"_Antligen*_," she mutters, straightening her dress before facing her guests.

The waiter finishes plating the food. The extra is re-covered and left on the cart. "I shall leave this if you want another serving – Chef prepared large portions."

"_Merci…_Thank you," Christine says walking him to the door. With a deep breath, she turns back to the Girys, forcing a bright smile. "_Asseyez-vous s'il vous_. Please, sit down. The food smells good – shall we eat?"

The two women follow her lead, sitting down, placing an embroidered napkins on their laps and focus on their meal. Neither making an attempt at conversation beyond, "this is delicious" and "you must give our compliments to the chef." Christine wonders if this was such a good idea. Despite the advice of the therapist, bringing a third party in when entertaining Meg did not seem to be working – perhaps Adele was the problem. Oh, how she wished Erik was here, but Dr. Bergen thought it best Erik not be present. Of course he was correct, but she felt so ineffectual.

"So Oscar Hammerstein was interested in meeting Meg?" Adele asks.

"His brother…Willie," Christine replies, her mood brightens. "It was he who saw the performance."

"Burlesque." Meg scoffs.

"Vaudeville is what I understood," Christine replies. Seeking understanding in the faces of mother and daughter. "That is not good?"

"Did you see my performance?"

"No, I am sorry, I did not."

Meg shrugs. "Just as well – you saw the rehearsals though."

"Yes, the number was quite lively – it sounded like a lot of fun and your voice was excellent."

"I removed the top of my bathing suit." Meg's tone is icy. "The audience only saw my back, but it was only a matter of time – another show, another season – when I would be parading naked for the world."

"Meg that is not so," Adele argues. "Your dancing and music had no need of such exposure."

"You seemed to think _he_ required such exposure to garner his attention." Her eye flare. "You were the one who told me to be patient – it was only a matter of time. Make myself useful." Jamming her eyes shut, she bows her head. "Well, look where that got me. Gustave nearly died, I nearly died…you nearly died. Make myself useful to him."

Christine reaches for her friend's hand.

"I am sorry, Christine," Meg says. "This has nothing to do with you. My mother and I have not seen each other since Christmas and, even then, our conversation has been limited. This luncheon was very kind of you to set up, but I cannot stay." Placing her napkin on the table she stands up.

Adele pushes herself up with her cane. "Meg, please, we must talk. I only accepted because you refuse to see me. Allow me to apologize."

"For my entire life?" Meg sneers. "You have been primping me to be a whore my entire life - under the guise of art and having a career…being a star. At what cost, Maman?"

"Meg, I did everything to protect you from such a life…with the managers at the Garnier and Erik would never…"

"No thanks to you." Her face burns with rage. "I honestly believed you when you said he cared. I wanted to believe you. I knew the truth, but I wanted to believe you. Believe that my own mother could not deceive me in such a way." Arms at her side, her fists clenched, tears flood her eyes flowing down her cheeks.

Christine gets up to put her arm around the young woman. "Come, sit down over here," she says, leading her to the settee.

Meg's sobs deepen, her body shakes as she struggles for air…her fingers dig into Christine's shoulders. "I am so ashamed." The words barely a gasp.

"Shh," Christine whispers, rocking Meg back and forth, humming softly. "You have nothing to be ashamed about. Wanting to be loved and desired is not shameful."

Adele rises from the dining table, crossing to sit across from them in the leather armchair. "I wanted what I thought was best for you."

"For you, you mean?" Meg sits up, rubbing her eyes. "Power, it was always about power – Madame Giry her stick on the floor and the world obeys her every command. Erik wanted to return to the opera house before we left for Calais, but you insisted we leave – you threatened him…said if we did not leave when we did, you would leave him."

"What?" Christine says.

"I was asleep in the cart," Meg explains. "I heard them arguing. He said he had forgotten something – that he needed to go back."

"The police were watching us – they were still looking for him."

"He was frantic,"

"All the more reason for me to insist – he would likely have stirred up trouble and it was getting light. The street vendors were already on the streets."

"He said it was important."

"What was more important than our lives. The police were searching for us…all of us, not just him."

"_I need to say good-bye to her_." Meg turns to Christine. "To you. You were there."

Christine nods, her own eyes glisten as she understands the import of Meg's words.

"You went back to him?"

"Yes." Christine bows her head.

"Gustave?"

"Yes." The barest smile parts her lips as eyes connect with those of her friend.

"You cannot blame me. I had no idea what he was talking about," Adele insists. "All I knew was we were all in danger and Erik had insisted we leave Paris as quickly as we could. Our trip would take hours, there was no time."

"You said she will be better off if she stays here." Meg's voice poisonous.

"She did not know," Christine says.

"You are too kind to her," Meg says.

"Meg," Adele pleads, "I am not some ogre. I was only doing what I thought was right for all of us. You do not know how it was. I always protected you…all of you – including Erik." Her rage seems to propel her from her seat to stomp across the Aubusson rug to the French doors. "Adele, fix my meal. Adele, the baron would like to meet you. Adele we need money for the rent." Resuming her pacing, her voice blistering, she says, "Then it became: Madame Giry, the patron is interested in this dancer or that dancer. Madame Giry, keeps the actors in line – do what you must. All my life – no one cared about what _I_ felt or what_ I_ needed, so please spare me your scorn."

Her words are hard, but when she turns to face the two young women, her own dark eyes were damp. "I will not apologize for trying to do my best, in the only way I knew how." Returning to the leather chair, she flops down, focusing her gaze on Christine. "I do know. You _were _better off staying in Paris."

Christine draws her breath in, her face pale. "I respectfully disagree, Madame. We shall never know what might have been better. Had I been consulted, I would likely would have joined you. In any event, the point is moot," she says, patting Meg's arm as she rises. "I shall make some tea to drink with my cookies – the boys laugh at my cooking skills, but perhaps that might be a good thing right now – some humor."

Unsure of whether she should be happy or sad over the knowledge Erik wanted to come back to retrieve her at most, to say good-bye at the very least. Adele always took control over everything – so many things might have been different without her influence. But there it was – she was a puppet master. The mother to all of them…and they let it happen.

How would Erik react when she told him? Should she tell him? He deserved to know, besides she was not good at deceiving him, so why even consider it. They would have to tell the therapist. Who would have thought the conversation would take such a direction?

Despite the angry words, Christine felt a sense of freedom lacking when the women, her old friends arrived. A song her mother sang to her as a child springs to mind… she sings the words, first under her breath as she prepares the tea tray, then loud enough for Meg and Adele to hear.

_I walk alone and wander here,__  
__Looking for my friend._

_I walk alone and wander here,__  
__Looking for my friend.__Look, I meet him here,_

_He, who my heart holds so dear._

_Say if you will dance with me,__  
__As you did before?_

_Tra la la la, la la la la,__  
__La la la la la, la la la la la,__Tra la la la, la la la la,__  
__La la la la la, la la!_

"The tea is ready," she says, returning to the sitting room. "Meg, could you bring the cookies over from the dining table." Relief floods her body as she observes both women themselves seeming relaxed and somewhat calmed, the emotion drained from all of them.

No one speaks, the tea poured, sipped – a few cookies nibbled on. The stillness a welcome respite.

The door bursts open, announcing the presence of Gustave with a less exuberant Erik behind him. "We found M. Khan and M. Touloui in the restaurant and we had our lunch together and I told them you made cookies, Maman, and when I asked they said they would like to taste them, so we are back," he announces.

Nadir and Darius peek around the door frame. "I hope this is not an inconvenience to you, Mademoiselle, uh, Madame Daae," Nadir says.

"Not at all and it is Christine," she says rising from the settee, arms outstretched to welcome the men. "Please come in." She surveys the room. "I fear we are lacking in formal seating, if you do not mind moving the dining chairs into the sitting room. The cookies are on the table."

"There are more in the kitchen," Gustave says, running to retrieve the basket.

Erik follows him, saying, "I shall prepare more tea."

"We were planning to take our leave in any event," Adele says. "Meg and I had a lovely lunch with Christine, but we do not wish to overstay our welcome. Is that not so, Meg?"

"If you say so, Maman. I should not wish to disagree with you."

Darius eyes her, his green eyes squint. "Are you all right?"

"I am perfectly fine – better than ever," Meg says, smiling brightly at him. Rising from her seat, she picks up one of the cookies from the dish on the coffee table. "I should not wish to deny you a cookie, however."

"Are you certain you wish to leave?" Christine asks, frowning in concern.

"I am," Meg responds. Opening her arms to Christine for a hug, the women embrace. "Thank you for today." Returning her attention to Darius, she hands him the cookie. "Just allow me to fetch my cloak and muff from the armoire and we can go."

Erik and Gustave appear in the kitchen doorway. "Leaving?"

"Yes, I am a little tired, perhaps the four of us can meet for dinner again soon."

Darius shrugs, helps Meg with her cloak, then with a tip of his hat, they leave.

"Were I less confident, I would think it was my presence."

"What makes you think it was not, Daroga?"

"Because I suspect it was you."

"As I recall I was invited to dinner."

"Stop it both of you," Adele says. "I am the person she finds so disgusting."

"Adele, no," Nadir says. "You are her mother."

"Precisely the problem."

"Did something happen today?"

"No. Yes. Nothing to discuss here or now with…" she lifts her head to indicate Gustave, his eyes intently following the conversation.

Erik checks with Christine who gives him a curt nod. "Well, then," he says. "Perhaps we four can share a dinner, later in the week perhaps?"

"Would you mind getting my wrap and muff, Nadir?" Adele asks. "I feel every bone in my body at the moment and believe I will need your arm to lean on."

"Can I help?" Christine asks, moving to help her up.

"I have it," Erik says, offering his hand to the ballet mistress.

"Thank you," she says, using her cane as a prop, accepting his hand to lift herself up from the chair. Their eyes meet, lowering hers she says, "I am sorry."

"Excuse me?"

"Never did I intend to bring you harm or unhappiness."

"Whatever are you talking about?"

"Christine will tell you." A grim smile crosses her face. "Nadir, shall we go?"

With a querulous look to Erik, Nadir helps Adele put on her cloak, then taking her arm, ushers her out the door. "We will talk in the morning?"

"As discussed," Erik says. "Take care."

"They left so soon, Maman," Gustave says.

"I think they were both tired. Madame Giry is likely still healing from her injury," Christine says. "We had a lovely lunch and spoke of old times." She tousles his hair. "I should like to speak with Papa Y about some matters you would find boring."

"Hmm, grown-up stuff or kissing?"

"Perhaps both, rascal," Erik says. "You can take the cookies with you. Work on some diagrams for the gramophone."

"All right, but at some point, I will no longer be a child and you will be unable to be rid of me with a bribe of cookies." With a flourish, he offers them a deep bow, grabs the plate of cookies and high steps down the hallway to his room.

"That time will come too soon. He is growing before our very eyes," she says. "No longer my baby."

Taking her hand, he leads her to the settee, looking deeply into her eyes. "You have been crying and if I am any judge of such things, so have Meg and Adele. What happened?"

"I believe Meg had…what is it called…katarsis…um…catharsis? And then Adele followed recalling her past injuries."

"Both of them?"

She nods. "It was quite something. They are so angry…and hurt."

"The therapist warned that might happen, he was concerned it might be upsetting for you."

"No, I was actually pleased."

"Then what did you wish to discuss?"

"Meg said she overheard you telling Madame you wanted to return to the opera house to say good-bye. You thought she was asleep, but heard talking – arguing."

He nods. "I wanted to bring you with us. I did not say as much to Adele, but it was my intent."

"Still, you did not come back."

"No. She voiced my original instinct – you would be better…safer with Raoul. So I did not return for you." His voice is barely audible. "I would say I was sorry, but you have warned me against another apology." He shrugs, falling against the back of the divan. "One decision and our lives thrown off kilter. Damn. Why did I not simply act?"

Taking his hand, she rests her head on his chest – listening to the beat of his heart, the rhythm of his breathing – both quicker than normal. "Believe it or not, I understand. I am happy you had second thoughts."

"For what they were worth…nothing. I was not as brave as you."

"I did not have to battle Adele's will," Christine says, adding a chuckle to ease his mind. "After today, I have a much better understanding of her and her role in your life – in all our lives."

"How so?"

"Mother – she is all our mothers," Christine explains. "Her command of the opera company should have been our clue.

"Have you been reading the Freud books?" Erik asks, an eyebrow quirked.

"In between embroidering and learning to bake – I read."

"You are enjoying this psychology business."

"I am."

"More than singing?"

"Never more than singing, but I should like to learn more about it. Heaven knows our little family would make a fascinating case study."

"Or an opera."

"Or an opera."

"I shall begin tomorrow," he says. "For now, I believe we could both use one of those kisses Gustave was talking about"

* * *

*At last (Swedish).


	14. Fear Can Turn to Love

Fear Can Turn to Love

"Have you decided?" Erik asks, propping himself up on his elbow, toying with Christine's curls spread across her pillow.

The couple lie on their bed in the Eyrie, the sun's rays stream through the skylights. The fireplace adding an additional glow and warmth enough to belie the snow banked on the window sills. Enough so neither feels the need to hunker beneath the down duvet. Still warm from one of what they laughingly call their illicit trysts.

Brief respites from the curiosity of a ten-year-old boy and the whispers of the Phantasma staff – all good-natured as the couple is beloved by everyone in their world. Erik always commanded respect and goodwill – he is a generous employer with an understanding most never received from the other carny owners who employed them in the past. Becoming beloved is thanks to Christine's presence – the once tortured man who bore a sorrow no mask could hide is now happy.

Happiness being happiness, the energy draws everyone to them. A day seldom passes when someone does not appear at Christine's door with a desire to know if "everything is all right and do they need anything."

Then there is the issue of their unmarried state – cohabitation unacceptable to both of them – primarily due to the ten-year-old boy and the whispers of the Phantasma staff. The Eyrie provides the privacy they desire, but after so many months, this situation is feeling not wrong, but not right either.

The arrival of the day's mail broke this uncomfortable situation with the long awaited confirmation of Christine's divorce from Raoul. With the papers in hand – it took them less than fifteen minutes to make their way to the hideaway – ostensibly to plan the next step. First though, a celebration would be had.

Erik hums as his fingers glissando the length of her– to caper on her mons.

"What are you doing?" she giggles. "I feel as though I am a substitute for your piano."

"Diddling, just diddling," he whispers in her ear.

A hitch in her breathing alters his fingering increasing the tempo of his ditty.

"What of this?" he asks, gently carding the soft cloud of pubic hair.

"Sssss." Shifting her position, she digs her heels into the featherbed. Was there ever a time she was not thrilled by his touch? Back to that first time he took her hand, guiding her through the mirror, his passion imprinted itself on her. Perhaps this intensity of feeling he radiated was the reason for her fear of him, the suspicion he was not truly an angel, but a man, who could hold sway over her. Any fear present in those days so long ago were gone. The awareness her effect is equally intense, bringing them to parity, only increases her desire for him.

"As I thought," he says. Locating her slit…sliding his middle finger along her slick folds into her private place, still moist from their earlier love-making. Stroking her briefly, he resumes his rhythmic fingering – focused intently on her clit – the sweet bud of her sex.

"Nice, very nice." Her legs spread wide, seemingly of their own volition responding to his touch. "I like this diddling." She squirms at the sensation created by the gentle, yet incredible stimulation, all of a piece with his voice and the wordless melody. As her hips thrust upward, she takes his hand, pressing it against her source, guiding him until she reaches her crisis – her ragged panting settling into a soft whimper.

"You are so wonderfully sensitive – an artist in all things," he says, holding her close as he pulls the covers over them.

"It was all so fast – it seems hardly fair to you. Once again you enchanted me," she says, holding her face up for a kiss, smoothing the patches of fine gray hair covering most of his skull. Sparse still, despite her best efforts to encourage the fine strands to thicken and grow. "Diddling, indeed."

"You looked so delectable, I could not resist – I never believed there could be such bliss in just watching you blossom," he says, bending to kiss her, stroking her thick locks.

"What was the piece you were humming?"

"_You_."

"Me?"

"Your breathing. Your sighs. The little moans and groans you make when you are pleased or not so pleased. I was humming _Christine_."

"Oh." Tears fill her eyes. "That is so lovely." Snuggling closer to him, she buries her head in the crook of his neck. Pappa promised her an angel – little did he know how the angel would manifest. A man so perfect in his love for her – the ability to make her both laugh and cry within fragments of time.

"So, what is the answer to my question?"

"What question is that? I was distracted."

"The wedding," he says. "Should we go to Pennsylvania and exchange our vows without a minister or justice?"*

"While that sounds an appealing idea – I do like the idea of pledging our troth to one another privately, without a lot of fuss. My mother told me the minister says _what God hath joined together, let no man put asunder._ If that is so, why is an officiant needed?"

"But, then, Nadir, because of his position with the police department, can acquire the credentials to marry us here at home – among our friends and family such as we have."

"So the choice breaks down to traveling to another state…being alone. Or celebrating with Gustave and our friends – and those who have looked to you as their master for all these years."

"When you put it that way," Erik laughs.

"The idea of visiting a quiet hamlet in another state seems so appealing," she says, nuzzling deeper into his embrace. "I have yet to see this city, much less this new country."

"It could be a destination for our honeymoon – Gustave in care here…we would have all our time to ourselves."

"You are finding him a nuisance…already?"

"Surely you jest – I adore him – however…"

Her laughter reveals the joke. "But you would like to spend some time alone with me that does not include sneaking around for us to be intimate."

"You do not?"

"I do. Very much. Most of all, I want us to be sharing a home – to be a family."

"So it is settled?"

"Yes – wedding here – honeymoon elsewhere – perhaps someplace warm. I assume Pennsylvania will have much the same weather as we have here – so somewhere south?"

Comfortable in their decision and cozy in their bed – each retreats to their own thoughts.

Christine is the first to break the silence. "Now that we have the divorce papers, I suggest we set the date – sooner rather than later."

"I feel I must ask – am I correct in suspecting we are to be parents again?" he says, stroking her belly.

Resting her hand on his, she says, "I did not realize I was showing so much."

"Not so much," he says, nibbling on her ear lobe. "Your breasts are more sensitive – delectably responsive to my touch. Everything about you is rounding, seeming to make room for another life."

"I am getting fat."

"You are blooming…a flower fulfilling her purpose in life."

"Listen to you – waxing poetic."

"I listen to you – as I said, my song is Christine. Your moods have changed. Your fragrance is different – the scent of you is ripe and voluptuous."

"Now you are embarrassing me," she says, pulling the covers up to her chin.

"Then there was your desire for pickled herring. I seem to recall you telling me it was your food of choice when carrying Gustave – who carries the addiction for that food to this day. Pickled herring and root beer," he groans.

"The taste for root beer he acquired on his own," she laughs and sighs. "Perhaps that is why I smell ripe to you."

"If that is the case, I shall be certain you are never without an adequate supply of the fish."

"Were we cohabiting, you might have witnessed my morning sickness."

"I would be honored to hold your head over the commode."

Swatting him lightly, she says, "You idiot." The times when she feels the worst with her discovery are when she misses him the most. His humor now, alleviating some of her fears, enabling to share her discomfort without criticism. This would not be a lonely pregnancy, left to her own devices in dealing with her shifts in moods and concerns about the health of the child she carries.

Taking her hand, he presses her palm to his mouth, then kisses the tip of each finger. "I am a man in love," he says.

"I love you, too – more than I ever dreamed."

Gathering her close, his tone grown serious. "But, I am also a man concerned. I am sorry I did not think to prevent another child. Is that why you have not said anything?"

"Whatever are you talking about – you are a wonderful father," Christine exclaims, sitting up to face him. "If anything, this child will have the benefit of a father's love from conception – not missing the sort of love only a father can give a child."

"Gustave's deformity is mild – and relatively easy to disguise and hide. What if this child is not so fortunate?" The golden glow of his eyes darken, his mouth grim.

"He or she will have a bounty of love to draw from. She will live in a world where people are judged for themselves not how they look."

"If only that were entirely possible," he says. "Whether you admit it or not, you must be concerned."

"I am more concerned about your feelings – which is why I wanted to be certain. Knowing you would worry, I hoped to reduce the time you might spend cursing yourself." Lying back down, spooning his hip, she presses her hand against his chest, tracing the physical scars that only hint at the deeper pain he carries – still unable to fully grasp the horror he reveals in a word here, a story there.

"You would not want me to lie. I never thought I would be a father…Gustave is…Gustave fills my heart with such joy," he says, voice breaking forcing him to swallow the heaviness in his throat. "Having another being born of my flesh is even more amazing. These past months make up for all the stigmata marking this body. I am grateful the child will not have to carry a similar burden. Still, there is this," he says, waving a hand at his face.

"Let us cross that bridge when we come to it," Christine says, pressing herself into him. "Take each day as it comes."

Cupping her chin in his hand, he presses a kiss on her forehead. "You are correct, of course. At the moment, we have a wedding to plan," he says. "Much as I would like to stay here…"

"We must relieve Miss Fleck of our son and have our dinner," she says.

With that, they share another kiss and leave the comfort of the bed and prepare to face the world again.

"I shall speak to Nadir tomorrow about securing our marriage license," Erik says, pulling on his frock coat.

Garments in place – the bed made, she walks into his open arms. "I cannot wait for us to have our home."

"Soon, my love. Soon."

* * *

**The State of Pennsylvania allows what is known as a Friend's Marriage, whereby a couple can exchange vows without the need for an officiant. This manner of getting married was set up to address the religious beliefs of the large population of Quakers in the state. People from other states can also be married under this ruling after fulfilling certain residency rules – which are quite easy to fulfill.


	15. Games of Make Believe

Checking his balance as he sidesteps four large boxes in the doorway, Gustave asks, "Maman – Papa Y, what are all these?" Continuing to tear off his coat and hat, he circles the containers, examining the shipping labels and customs stamps.

Erik shrugs, removing his own coat and taking Christine's cloak, hanging all the outer wear in the armoire. "Indeed, what are all they?"

"More tying up loose ends from Raoul, I imagine," Christine answers. "When the delivery man handed me the envelope from Raoul, all I could think of was running to find you. I hardly noticed them and once the delivery men completed their task, I thanked and tipped them and rushed to the hotel to the ballroom where you said you would be working."

"And I am so happy you did," Erik chuckles, pressing her hand to his mouth.

Eying Gustave, Christine blushes and removes her hand, unable to resist giggling back at Erik.

Gustave rolls his eyes before returning to examining the mysterious shipment. "What was in the envelope?"

Despite Gustave's obvious affection for Erik – Christine still wonders about his relationship with Raoul. Had it really been so bad? He did ask her if his father loved him – that was just before the truth was exposed. These past months were so different from his life in France. As his mother, she wanted only the best for him. She had to admit the finality of the letter found her somewhat unsettled – happy as she was. Change was always such a momentous thing. Gustave was happy now, but what if he regretted the choice she made for them.

"A paper saying I am no longer married to Pere Raoul," Christine says.

Turning away from the packages to face her, he lifts himself to sit on top of the taller of the two stacks.

Erik reaches out to make sure he is secure. "Careful, I am not certain how stable they are."

Gustave smiles at him, legs splayed in front of him, arms open wide.

"Yes, I see," Erik says, "Once again you amaze me with your astute nature."

"So do I still have to call him Pere?"

"Not if you do not want to."

The boy ponders this for a moment. "I shall call him M. Vicomte then."

"As you wish."

"Does that mean you two are getting married?"

"Yes – that is, if you approve," Christine says, glancing toward Erik. "We would not act in any way you would find uncomfortable."

"Will we all live together?"

"That would be the goal, certainly," Erik says.

Christine nods in agreement.

"Yippee!" Gustave jumps down from his perch to dance a jig around the boxes, before throwing his arms around his father. "I hate when you leave us at night."

"And I hate leaving," Erik rolls back on his heels from the force of the embrace. Cradling Gustave's head in the palm of his hand, he rocks him back and forth, before tickling his ribs.

Christine smiles at her men, father and son completely in love with one another. If destiny forced them to wait for this moment, well, the result was worth it. Whether intended or not, the boxes sitting next to the door, suggest another message from the past to be addressed. Her stomach churns, her heart beat quickens. Why the fear? What memories would be stirred by their contents? Holding her stomach, she walks to the settee and sits down.

"Are you all right? Can I get you something?" Erik's voice filled with concern, walks over to feel her forehead with the back of his hand and rub her back.

"I am fine, just felt a little queasy." How would Erik feel about the oblong one sitting atop the other three? Wrapped in brown paper, frayed at the edges and tied with once white string, now darkened with age. One she herself had packed so many years ago.

Interesting Raoul sent it with the others, but then he likely had nothing to do with sorting through their things. Simply ordering the emptying of hers and Gustave's rooms of anything that spoke of their use or concern. This was the second such shipment, the first primarily clothing and books – she could not imagine there would be much more to be discovered in their quarters. That he made the effort to send these items, rather than simply have them destroyed reminded her of the kind and thoughtful Raoul she once loved.

"Do you want to deal with these boxes now?" Erik asks, following her eyes. "It seems both you and Gustave are curious as to the contents."

"Not entirely curious…this one first, I think," she says, pointing at the long, narrow box. "I never thought I would see it again."

Erik frowns. "Something of your father's."

Shaking her head, she says, "No. I have his violin, my mother's ring…the sewing boxes…" Tears flow unbidden.

Gustave joins them, sits down next to her, resting his head on her shoulder. "Do not cry, Maman. You are safe here with us."

"It really is a happy surprise…truly," she laughs lightly, patting his hand. "I do not mean to upset you, I am just finding myself so much more emotional these days."

"You do cry a lot…more than ever before," Gustave agrees. "You were crying so much over the cookies the other day, I did not know what to do."

"You ate all the burnt ones so I would not have to see them," she says, tweaking his nose. "That was most generous of you."

"Well, shall we open this box or continue to discuss your tears," Erik says. "Since we know the basis of your strong emotions."

"_I_ do not know," is Gustave's retort. "_I_ want to know why Maman cries so much now. We are not in that awful house anymore," he says, looking up at her. "You are happy now, why are you crying…why do you get sick?"

"Christine?"

"I think the box first." she says. "I think if we start there, the other explanation will come more easily."

"If you want to open the box first, then that is what we shall do." Erik quirks an eyebrow at Gustave when he looks to protest. "You stay put, I shall bring the box over."

"I should like to get these tears out of the way," she says, wiping her eyes with a hanky she has tucked up her sleeve.

Removing a silver pen knife from his waistcoat pocket, Erik cuts through the string, some of it falling apart in his fingers. "I am surprised it survived the journey. They were stored in a stateroom, judging from the stamps – not put in stowage. Very thoughtful of the Vicomte. The string is barely holding together and the paper is tearing just from my touch."

"I wrapped it as best I could." Removing the paper, folding it and handing it to Gustave, she sighs deeply as she lifts the lid. "Oh," she breathes as she pulls back the linen cloth covering the fine silk and lace gown. "It has not discolored…at least not terribly so."

"From your wedding?" After a moment's hesitation, Erik's recognition of the gown finds his own eyes wet and fights to blink back tears. "You kept it," he whispers falling to his knees in front of her, running his fingers over the delicate fabric. "Oh, my dear."

"What?" Gustave says, peering into the box. "It is a dress." He rolls his eyes. "Arrghh. Now both of you are crying." Throwing his arms into the air, he gets up from the sofa, shaking his head and stomps off to the kitchen. "I am going to get some root beer."

Christine leans over to cradle Erik's head on her lap. "When we arrived at the mansion, Raoul wanted me to hand the dress over to have it burned. I encouraged him to take care of his own needs. We both had to calm ourselves from what happened. At that moment in time, I wished only to have some peace. The dress was not an issue."

"He was fine with that?" Erik sits up, staying on the floor next to her.

"He had to be. I was not prepared for him to strip the gown from my body," she chuckles. "In any event, there was more going on, dealing with the police and the questions from his family…the dress was forgotten. I packed it up and stored it in a small storage area in my suite."

"The police?"

"I was questioned a number of times – how well did I know you? Where did we have our lessons? Were there other entries to the music room?"

"What did you tell them?"

Christine smiles, brushing the back of her hand against his cheek. "Nothing. I would simply start crying, telling them I was too upset. After a while, they found a body believed to be yours and the questioning stopped."

"And the Vicomte?"

The Vicomte? Oh, Erik. What did I tell the Vicomte? It has been so long since I thought about those first days. Between his accusations – why did I agree to go with the Opera Ghost after removing the mask? _"Why did you kiss him? You kissed him twice. Why_?" Then his sobbing, wanting forgiveness for suspecting me of such complicity. It was his own fear that was his undoing – then and later, even until these past months. He haunts us now, as you haunted us then.

"Raoul said nothing. He found his solace in the bottle, as you discovered. At first it was a single drink, but eventually, he only wanted to be numb. He never really trusted me again, but, to his credit and with my gratitude, would not allow his family to toss me onto the street. Sighing deeply, she says, "I hope this shipment is the last of these reminders."

"If the past was so easily shed." Erik says, raising her chin with a finger. "I did not mean to set any bad memories in motion for you. Our future is first and foremost in my mind."

"Are you two still crying?" Gustave calls from the kitchen. "I am bored in here and want to know what is in the other boxes. Maybe there is something of mine in there – something that will not make everyone cry."

"The coast is clear," Erik says, "I fear you will be living with two people who cry a lot, my son. I cannot promise otherwise."

Gustave strolls back into the sitting room, carrying his bottle of soda and joins his father on the floor. "That is okay, Papa Y, I guess crying is not such a bad thing."

"You do not cry?"

The boy shrugs.

"Gustave has always been rather stoic."

"Uncle Phillippe said that deChagny men must be strong – present a strong face to the public," Gustave says. "We are the nobility and must set a good example."

"And what of your father? What did he say?"

"He told me to listen to Uncle Phillippe because he was the head of the family."

"That must have been difficult for both of you."

Gustave takes a sip of his root beer. "I would go to my room and play the violin or read."

"But never cried?" Erik takes the bottle from his son's hand and places it on the table.

Gustave looks up at him from under his long lashes. "Sometimes, when everyone else was asleep."

"Oh, darling, I wish I had known," Christine says, stroking his hair.

"I did not want you to be sad because of me," he says, leaning closer to her.

"You are such a good boy," Erik says. "Your mother and I love you very much and if you should ever care to join us in our tears, you are most welcome."

Christine laughs, wrapping her arms around both Erik and Gustave, kissing them each on the top of their heads. "Since we are already looking back at our days in France, perhaps it is time to open these other boxes. I have a feeling the contents might have some relevance to other news we have to share with you."

Erik raises his eyebrows.

"Open the boxes, would you?"

The first box reveals linen wrapped packets of baby clothes…gowns, bonnets, booties…blankets, and small boxes of cloth toys…bunnies and kitties. The largest package contains a hand-knit afghan looking to be created from odds and ends of yard in every color imaginable.

The next box also holds clothing, but more suitable for a toddler, dresses with jackets and caps. Heavier outerwear and shoes.

The last container holds a small wagon, an automobile looking to be made from a Meccano set, the original box still filled with unused parts packed next to it, and a large stuffed bear.

"My old toys – from when I was little," Gustave says, opening the box of blocks. "I wondered where they got to."

"It would appear that someone wished to interest you in building," Erik says, picking up some pieces from the Meccano set. "This is a wonderful toy – we can design entirely new attractions for the park with this. There are even more pieces that can be added to these."

"Gustave was always curious about how things were put together," Christine says. "These were his clothing and toys from when he was much younger."

"Do you really think we can invent new rides with these, Papa Y?"

"I do – much of Phantasma was already here, but I designed much of it – with you by my side, who know what we can create."

Christine clears her throat and pats her tummy. "Speaking of creations."

Erik smiles, tapping Gustave on the shoulder, signaling him to listen to his mother. Both of them give her their undivided attention – a pair of golden eyes and a pair of hazel await her words.

"You wondered why I have been so emotional, crying…being ill."

Gustave nods.

"Well, you are going to have a little brother or sister."

"A baby? You are going to have a baby?" Gustave turns to Erik, who nods.

"Oh." The word is flat, emotionless.

Christine frowns…looks to Erik for support.

"What is wrong? We thought you would be happy."

"I am, I guess. I do not know." He gets up and goes to the box with the baby clothes, picking through them.

"Take your time, son," Erik says. "We have given you a lot to take in."

"Son?"

"Of course. You are my son. I am your Papa Y or just Papa now. Did you think that would change?"

"Maybe."

"You are my first born – my special boy, my friend," Christine says. "That will never be different."

Gustave sniffles, holding back the tears threatening to flow. "I want things to be like they are now – just us. I do not want to share you with a baby," he says, running to Erik, throwing himself onto his father's lap.

"You will always be my special treasure," Erik says, smoothing the hair covering the distorted flesh on the boy's head. This new child will be precious – but, you…you gave _me_ life – a life I never dreamed I would ever have."

"Really?" The ten-year-old wipes his nose on his sleeve.

"You are crying," Erik says.

"We truly are a family of criers," Christine says.

Gustave laughs at the comment. "Babies are all criers."

"They are indeed."

"We need to buy lots of handkerchiefs."

"I suppose we had," Erik says, pulling a square of linen from his pocket, handing it to the boy. "Better than sleeves."

"I can help with the baby?"

"I hoped you would want to."

"Can I name it…him…her?"

Erik and Christine exchange a side eye.

"It will not be something dumb or mean."

"Do you have something in mind now?"

"No – I have time to think on it."

Christine sighs. "I will trust you."

Gustave grins. "Can I have another root beer?"

"Better yet, let us go back to the restaurant and have some ice cream sundaes," Erik says. "First we must all dry our eyes or the staff will frown in their concern and then the customers will wonder at the food and leave giving us a whole new reason to cry."

"Yeah!" Gustave jumps up and runs to the bathroom.

Erik gets to his feet – stretching his back and bending his knees. "I must remember chairs are for sitting, floors for walking." Bowing from the waist, he offers his hand to Christine. "My lady?"

Allowing him to pull her gently toward him, she says, "I was concerned for a moment. I never thought he would be upset, but then he has always kept so much to himself…to protect me, I suppose."

"He shall play as much as he likes now."

"You mean you will both play as much as you like," she says, straightening his tie and patting down his waistcoat.

"You are always welcome to join us," he leans down touching her lips gently with his. "None of us really had a carefree childhood. Now we have an entire amusement park to indulge ourselves."

Christine shakes her head. "I rather enjoy the play time we enjoy already."

Erik's neck and face turn pink. "You are a minx."

Christine giggles and pecks him on the cheek. "We best get ready to go, Gustave will be barreling out here at any moment. Ice cream is a great motivator for him."

"I cannot tell you how much you both mean to me."

"I know, my love." She take his hands. "Believe it or not, we feel the same about you."

"Can I have a banana split?"

"I do not see why not – if chef has all the ingredients."

"What about the boxes?" Christine asks.

"This is play time, my dear," Erik says. "Time enough to do chores when we return home."


	16. Live As You've Never Lived Before

When Erik opens the door to his penthouse suite, Nadir smirks. "I see some of the flamboyant patterns of the palace linger on in your wardrobe...the red suits you."

A contrast in style, Erik is garbed in a burgundy velvet smoking jacket, black wool slippers with embroidered red roses and white daisies on his feet. Nadir wears his familiar gray astrakhan hat and somber olive green three-piece suit, his only concession to style is a gold pocket watch chain.

Eying the Persian up and down, Erik retorts, "And you are dull as always."

"You have not seen my new dervish hat, it would put those slippers to shame. As it is, however, I am on duty and must adhere to bureaucratic dress."

"I should like to see the hat – at one time I had a stunning Mandarin jacket and hat acquired in China…but that was in another of my lives."

"You are a bit like a cat in that regard – what life do you suppose you are living now…8…9?"

"There are moments when it seems like a thousand, however, I am quite content – happy with this one."

"I am glad for that."

"Come. Sit. I prepared tea." A wave of his hand indicates the dining table situated in the bay window. A gold and enamel Samovar converted to electricity shares space with a plate of the Persian walnut cookies the daroga favors. Having discovered his love for this particular treat, Christine made it a personal challenge to bake them to perfection for him.

"She has become quite obsessed with learning how to cook – although I have assured her on numerous occasions it is not necessary. I am quite an accomplished cook and the hotel kitchen is always prepared for whatever we might like."

"Her skills are not improving, in other words?"

Erik laughs. "You know me too well."

"These cookies are quite tasty."

"Cookies and breads are her specialty – which, to her credit, are actually more difficult to prepare - what with the chemistry. Gustave torments her mercilessly, but often as not, she spars with him until they both are overcome with laughter." His voice drifts off, the tone wistful. A tight shake of his head brings his attention back. "It is quite amusing to watch, but I know it frustrates her – she is much the perfectionist."

"And yet?"

"And yet, she wants to be able to cook for her family."

"Well, if that is the only problem such a lovely woman possesses, I would suggest you eat what she prepares and praise Allah for your good fortune. You might also consider acquiring a dog – since you do not practice Islam, there would be no problem having one in your home. I understand they are quite useful when wishing to dispose of unpalatable food."

"The dog would soon become grossly overweight, I fear," Erik jokes, before his mood shifts again and darkens. "I had a dog once."

"You never told me."

"There is much you do not know, but, yes, Sasha. She was my one childhood friend."

"What happened to her?"

"Some boys killed her." No emotion in the normally mellifluous voice.

"Oh," Nadir says, unsure of how to respond. "Did you never have any peace?"

"Now. Now I have peace and love," Erik says, his focus returned to the present. "I think Gustave would like having a dog. Thank you for making the suggestion."

The glaze shading the amber eyes announce the topic closed. Nadir examines his friend, if that is the proper word for their relationship. His face expressive even with half covered with a mask. There was always the sarcastic repartee between them. Erik seldom edited his thoughts and his words often stung. There were moments when he was certain Erik might have preferred him dead, possibly inclined to do the deed himself.

The brilliant, raw heathen he knew in Persia – cruel to the point whereby Nadir wondered how the same man could be so tender with his Reza – was seemingly gone, evolved into an entrepreneur, lover, father. Still socially clumsy. Even in this land of freaks – Erik would always be the freak exemplar – almost relishing his ugliness at times – using it as vindication for the pain he inflicted on others.

And yet, he was transformed – talking of cookies and the woman who appears to have performed the magic creating such chatter.

His reaction to Meg on the pier – compassionate and caring – was not the Erik of Tehran – no Punjab lasso – no cold-blooded murder of the person who dared abuse his child. Adele shared some of the experiences during the time since they left Paris together. A metamorphosis occurred in Erik. What happened that night of Don Juan Triumphant, he wondered?

Erik clears his throat. "Have I become such a bore? I must say, the conversation is certainly mundane compared with imagining tortures for slaves of the Shah, still I would hope we could converse as peers, now that I am somewhat of a normal person – mask notwithstanding."

"Associating your life in Persia to making marriage plans has convinced me you have not changed as much as I may have assumed."

"Good, I would not want you to become lax in appreciating the character of others – especially mine. I have changed, but the memories linger – some things are impossible to leave behind," Erik says. "So – your ability to perform a marriage?"

"Yes…yes, I am certified to perform marriages. They had to actually give me a job – I was only a consultant – but when I told them it was for the owner of Phantasma, permission was not only bestowed, but I was asked if there was anything else you wanted."

"Hmmm, interesting."

"In case you are wondering, _I do not want to know why.*_"

"I shall tell you anyway. It is really quite harmless," Erik laughs, pouring each of them another cup of tea. "Without my being aware, Adele and Meg were offering special services."

"Yes, a part of Meg's breakdown."

"Adele was also making unnecessary pay-offs without telling me. I must admit that was as much my fault as hers – I was too lost in my inventions and longing for Christine…in any event, I visited each of the men used my charm to convince them I preferred an up and up business arrangement and to leave the women alone. I had seen enough of that at the Palais."

"Charm?"

"Call it what you will – I do have certain persuasive powers when needed."

"Adele told me about your "powers" in acquiring a so-called salary at the Garnier."

"Those fools did not know how to run an opera. Forget about not promoting Christine to the lead – they allowed the girls to be treated like chattel."

"Joseph Buquet?"

Erik's eyes flash. "Buquet was a pig and deserved to die, but I did not kill him. The manner of his death was of my doing – you of all people know of my traps. He was spying and was justly rewarded for all his crimes – including sabotaging the chandelier. Christine might have been killed."

"I was not accusing you."

"Then what? What is this inquisition all about?" Erik snarls. "I kept my promise to you – to only kill in self-defense."

"The tenor was not trying to kill you."

"Oh, really? The entire cast was conspiring to have me killed – thanks to the boy." Erik says, rising from the table, fingers flexing. "In any event, he did not die. He fainted from fright – thankfully so. He was actually one of the more talented artists those idiots hired." He stares out the window to the sea below.

"You threatened the Vicomte – you told me as much," Nadir goads him on, enjoying the effect his questions are having on the former Opera Ghost. Erik's behavior always carried an element of drama. A showman even in his sorrow and torment. Perhaps it was the exaggeration that enabled him to carry on with his life rather than end it.

Much as he was troubled by some of the events Erik was describing, he was also entertained – suspecting that Erik was also enjoying the angst he was professing. Perhaps he was not as pure and moral as he felt himself to be – a disturbing thought in the very least. How he had missed the man he brought to Persia and later enabled to escape.

"I did threaten him…I was crazed. That was the closest I came to betraying your trust – although, it would have been self-defense for anyone other than me." Erik paces the floor. "Is this conversation necessary? She trusts me."

"But I know you better."

"Do you? I worked for years to redeem myself – scorned by others, even when I attempted to live as a normal man working for Charles Garnier – who hired me despite my…appearance – so I lived in a basement…alone."

"Erik…"

"No." A long fingered hand waves him off. "It was as great as any agony I experienced during my lifetime. A different torment – solitude…a slow death underground – until I heard her voice and I no longer wanted to die."

"You almost killed."

"Almost – the little fool would have deserved it – he conspired to kill me."

"You stirred up a lot of mayhem."

"Enough to justify a death sentence?" Erik stops in front of the Persian, staring him down.

"You would have killed him?"

"I thought I might." His fury subsides and he turns away. "It did not come to that."

"What happened?" The words almost inaudible.

Erik shakes his head.

"What happened?"

A low moan escapes the swollen lips. He wraps his arms around himself, seeking comfort in his own touch. Whatever pain he feels is present in his voice. "Christine saw me as the devil you knew in Persia in all his infamy. All the hatred. All the mindless desire to destroy. All the ugliness – not just this face and this body – but the rot at the core of me. How did she say it?" A harsh laugh. "_Your haunted face holds no horror for me know. It is your soul where the true distortion lies_. I told her to choose." His eyes burn into Nadir's. "Of course, choosing him meant his death. Quite a choice, would you not say?" Another laugh…softer, gentler. "Then she kissed me. Twice." He returns to his seat, depleted. "I had to let her go. With him."

"But Gustave? How?"

"Have you forgotten the workings of the human body?" He shrugs. "She returned to me."

"But?"

"I thought it would be best for her to stay with him."

"Not her choice…yours. Well, no one was ever able to tell you anything."

"We all suffered for my arrogance."

Nadir laughs out loud. "It is worth every struggle I ever had with you to hear those words."

"Then my life is complete."

"You have kept this to yourself?"

Erik snorts. "Who would I tell? Christine knows – we do not speak of it, at least not in the sense of the events themselves, but it is always there in one way or another."

"What does she know of your past?"

"Her own experience and the wreckage of my body tells its own tale. If she has questions, she asks. Mostly, though, she forgives – even that which she knows nothing about."

"And bakes cookies."

"Yes. And sings. I would eat burned or undercooked food into eternity to be able to hear her voice and have her near me. I do not know why I have been so blessed, but I will do whatever it takes to assure her happiness…and that of our son and any other children we bring into this world."

"Is that an announcement?"

Erik nods.

"So an expeditious ceremony would be in order."

"Do your best," Erik says, pushing a folder towards the daroga. "I have the papers for both of us, if you care to look them over."

"No problems for you at Ellis Island?"

"Because of my face? No. Actually, there were a number of us scarred and torn humans. I was healthy, had proof of a viable skill…architecture, construction…funds," Erik says. "I wish we had opted for 2nd class at least – it would have been an easier journey, but access to my funds in Paris was not assured and the jewels…well, they were not something I wished the authorities to be aware of."

"So you rode in steerage?"

"A most enlightening experience, reminding me of my days with the gypsies."

Despite his words to the contrary, Nadir wondered if the man before him could leave his past entirely behind. There seemed nothing in his life where he could find an escape from mistreatment or the private hell still lurking inside him.

"Looking back, I probably should have taken the chance – for the women – but, Adele made all the arrangements for the journey – I was incapable of doing more that moving one step in front of the other. She is quite the woman."

"I am happy to hear you say so," Nadir says, scanning the paperwork. "Your naturalization papers are in order. As your wife, Christine will achieve her citizenship through you – the boy as well. Her divorce papers are fine." Straightening the papers, he returns them to the folder and says, "Next stop City Hall for your license."

"Speaking of which – what is this job you have taken?"

"You know the Progressives are looking at how to stop the sale of alcohol."

"To the extent I know anything about politics which is not much – Adele has spoken of it, though."

"It would behoove you to listen to her – she is very much aware of what is going on, not only in New York, but the world," Nadir takes a sip of tea. "You know of the suffrage movement?"

"Women voting? Yes, I cannot understand why they should not."

"All are part of a piece. Prohibition would affect you financially."

"This would seem to be a battle not easily won – since the beginning of recorded time, people have imbibed." Lifting his chin, indicating a parsons table holding several bottles of amber and clear liquids. Were I a betting man, I would put my money on the success of the women before alcohol becoming forbidden."

"Nevertheless, I have been given the task to keep track of Coney Island licenses and maintenance of the laws already in effect."

"I see – this would include Jack's?"

"And the hotel and the Ballroom."

"As far as I know, everything is in order. My charm extends to my employees and the vendors. As for the other Coney Island operations…those are not my concern."

"The pressure is only going to grow more intense," Nadir says. "For myself, drinking alcohol is already haram. I suppose they found a certain irony in my religious faith and asking me to enforce their prohibitions."

"Life is full of bridges to cross – this is just one more." Picking up the plate of treats, he holds it out to the daroga. "I do not suppose I could offer you a bribe," Erik chuckles. "Another cookie, perhaps."

"Just permission to observe."

"Whatever you need."

"Thank you, my friend."

"My pleasure."

Nadir quirks an eyebrow.

"Seriously, whatever you need."

"You have changed."

"I shall take that as a compliment – knowing how rare they are coming from you."

"This seems too easy."

"You do not trust me?"

"No – not entirely."

Erik guffaws.

"I am right, am I not?"

"Perhaps – perhaps not. I simply like having the upper hand with you, daroga. You should know that by now."

"Touche."

Rising from his chair, Erik walks to the table holding the liquor. He pours two fingers of Armagnac into a tulip glass, holding it up to Nadir. "Care to try this – the flavor is quite heavenly – like caramel and vanilla with a hint of apples. You would not even be aware you were drinking liquor."

"I shall pass, but please do not let me stop you."

"Pity some people would be offended by something so delicious. Alas." Lifting the glass in a toast. "To wedding plans and friendship."

"To wedding plans and friendship." Nadir lifts his teacup. "A votre sante, mon ami."

"A votre sante."

* * *

*This story incorporates a dialogue prompt from rscoil – _I don't want to know why_. Thank you for the addition to Erik and Nadir's repartee.


	17. Love Will Continue

Love Will Continue

"Maestro," Erik calls out as he and Christine enter the theater from the lobby.

At Erik's insistence, she has been working with the orchestra conductor to select a number of songs that would appeal to an audience come to dance, not to hear a concert. Much as she wants to sing again, she has not entirely warmed to the situation.

Still, what better place to be than an amusement park – her emotions a roller coaster ride these few weeks since she realized she was pregnant. Today was a perfect example of the variations. Upon awakening, she was pleased the morning illness dogging her had stopped. Erik arrived early and she was able to keep the food down, although her appetite was absent. Both of them were anxious and excited to be applying for their marriage license. Still, after so many days of doing relatively little, the activity has her irritable.

"Mr. Y…Madame Daae, good afternoon." Rudolph Eisenstadt – an immigrant from Germany – shares some of Erik's features – dark hair, even though Erik's is a wig, unusual eyes – grey rather than amber – graceful hands – hands that held the attention of the audience as much as the music he was directing. A perfectionist, particularly when it came to the music his orchestra produced. His sense of music always presented a balanced repertoire for those who often came in from Manhattan to dance.

"Thank you for meeting us here, I apologize for our being late," Erik says as they approach the pit, his long legs picking up speed due to the incline of the aisle.

"Erik, slow down, please," she says under her breath.

"Oh, my dear, I am sorry," he says, abruptly stopping, causing her to trip on his foot.

"I said slow down, not stop." Pulling away from his grasp, she steadies herself on the back of one of the red plush seats. "I am just fatigued…a lack of rest and too much excitement. Everything feels so closed in."

Her abrupt move, throws him off balance and he loses his footing on the red and gold carpeting.

"Are you two all right?" the conductor asks, but he, too, finds himself stumbling. He grabs onto Erik's arm…the two men tumble to the floor.

Christine bursts out laughing at the heap of tangled long legs and arms lying at her feet. "So much for excessive dignity," she chortles. "You look so funny. I am sorry, Professor. Erik is always so concerned about his appearance and you are a close second, I am afraid."

Another round of laughter takes her over with tears rolling down her cheeks at the glares both men throw at her, until they, too, realize how ridiculous the entire situation is. Erik breaks the tension with his own laugh, one seldom heard by most people – often surprising himself. A combination of a dog barking and a goose honking. The shock of the sound is enough to rouse the conductor from his own distress.

"Since my lady appears to be fine – which was my greatest concern..." His eyes seek hers. A frown creases his forehead at her response of a weak smile – any sign of humor gone – her face drawn as she bites her lower lip. "I believe we two men, should get to our feet and attempt to reclaim some of our dignity before anyone else comes in to see us rolling around on the floor."

Rudolph grunts his consent as he regains his footing, dusting off his tailored black pants, held up with striped suspenders. A white dress shirt is open at the collar with the sleeves rolled up revealing muscular hirsute forearms. Offering a hand to Erik, he pulls him up, keeping hold to shake once the former Opera Ghost is on his feet.

Taking Christine by the arm, Erik pats Rudolph on the back as the three make their way to the stage. "Are you all right? Do you wish to go home?" he whispers to her.

"No, I am fine…as I said, just a little fatigued," she says. "We have already kept the professor waiting – I do not wish to inconvenience him anymore."

"If you are certain." Squeezing her hand, he leads her up the stairs to the stage. "As I was going to say in apology for our tardiness, we paid a visit to City Hall to acquire our marriage license and found a longer line than we anticipated."

In all actuality, upon their arrival, they were surrounded by people who knew them from Phantasma. Many heard of the masked Mr. Y, but never expected to meet him. Now here he was with the diva whose voice was that of an angel. Scraps of paper, envelopes and other bits of paper were thrust at them, begging for autographs. Despite his grumbling about crowds and time, she could see the pleasure in his eyes. She supposed, in all his years, he was never approached with such welcome, and while the crush of people was intimidating, he appeared to be taking pleasure in being complimented and admired – not only for his sake, but hers.

"So the wedding is to happen?"

"Yes," Christine says. "You have been most kind listening to my babbling about the party and the music and when we would be able to actually have a wedding."

"I could not be happier for both of you. As to your performing with the orchestra…" the conductor continues, riffling through the small stack of sheet music Erik lays on top of the grand piano. "What might work the best is to have a single instrument accompany you, while the rest of the orchestra is taking their break. We do not have to limit it to piano – trumpet, clarinet, saxophone…violin – can all be suitable – even exciting for your audience – and the artists, allowing them to showcase themselves."

"I know this is quite a change from the symphonic orchestras you are accustomed to," Erik says.

"I am grateful to work at all, Mr. Y," he says. "The world is not always a pleasant place for Jews. Things go well for a while, but then an old rulers dies and a new one steps in. So many of my friends were emigrating, I simply followed their lead."

"It was quite brave of you to introduce yourself to me – my reputation being what it was," Erik laughs.

"Your reputation was that of a showman," Rudolph shares the laugh. "Where better for me to seek employment than at an amusement park."

"Erik?" Christine tugs on his sleeve. "I _am_ feeling a bit faint. Could we…? I am sorry, Professor."

"You _did_ hurt yourself."

"No. Truly, I simply need to rest."

"Do not worry about me," says Rudolph. "I shall look at these songs and assign different instruments that would work well as accompaniment."

"Thank you," Christine says. "I shall be here tomorrow…on time, warmed up and ready to work."

"What more could I ask?"

Erik ushers Christine into her suite. "Here let me help you with your things," he says, slipping the deep blue cashmere cape from her shoulders. "Dear lord."

"What? What?"

"A smudge – on your skirt – it appears to be blood."

A frown creases her brow. "No. It cannot be blood. I must have sat on something," she says emphatically. "I am pregnant. One does not bleed when pregnant."

"This did not happen with Gustave?"

She shakes her head. None of this pregnancy resembles what happened when carrying Gustave. Even the morning nausea was absent entirely. Life was calm, if dull. Raoul was distant, but she understood that to be normal behavior from men in his position – or so his sisters informed her. If she was shunned, it was no different from the treatment before they were married. Her term proceeded without incident or worry, other than her private concerns about the possibility of a deformity…which turned out to be minor…only confirming her suspicion about his parentage. The birth was blessedly easy.

Gustave is, as far as she is concerned, a perfect child in every way. Nevertheless, she already loves this new baby with all her heart – so happy to be with her father. Yes, that is probably it, the tiny life must be a girl. The thought calms her…momentarily.

"Let us get you undressed."

Bending over with a gasp, she says, "I need to use the commode." The cramp grips like a vise, taking her breath away.

Erik lifts her into his arms, carries her to the bathroom and sets her down. "From what I have read, there might be light bleeding during pregnancy."

"Why would I be bleeding if everything was all right?" She lifts her skirt, twisting it around to see the stain on the pale green silk. Tears flood her eyes. "This is wrong."

"Do you need to sit?" Erik asks. His tone quiet and calm.

Nodding once, she unbuttons the waist of her drawers, allowing him to remove them, then sits on the ceramic pot, elbows pressed into her thighs, head resting on her hands, eyes pressed shut.

Kneeling in front of her, his breath hitches, a small groan rattles in his throat as he examines the underwear. A patch of bloody fluid framing a small darker red sac, half the size of his little finger, rests in the crotch of the delicate cotton undergarment. Looking closely, he can almost make out the body that might have grown into a son or daughter.

"It is over." A statement, not a question, her voice dull. "I thought my lack of morning sickness and the tenderness of my breasts gone was a good sign. I was wrong – the baby was also gone."

He cannot remember ever hearing that particular tone – lifeless. Another Christine. "Yes. That appears to be the case." Sighing deeply, he asks, "Do you wish to see?"

Lifting her head, she nods.

Erik fashions the undergarment into makeshift swaddling, before resting the remains gently in her waiting hands.

Clutching the tiny bundle to her breast, deep sobs, seeming to rise from her now empty womb, wrack her body.

Erik wraps his arms around her, rocking with her, his own tears fall silently. They sit in this way for several moments, taking comfort in one another.

"We must bathe her."

"I shall find something more suitable to use as a shroud," he says, getting to his feet, he begins running water in the sink basin. The linen closet offers a variety of towels and bedding – all embroidered with their initials. He chooses a variety of linens, one a smaller square of pink linen perfect for the remains.

"I think one of the sewing boxes left by my father would make a nice coffin," she says. "They are in the cupboard with the linens."

Erik retrieves the smaller of the two, before returning to help Christine walk to the sink.

With excessive care, Christine washes the tiny form, adding her tears to the bath. After which, she wraps the baby in the piece Erik chose, resting her on another soft cloth he placed in the casket.

"We must arrange a burial."

"Of course. Do you want a priest or minister?"

"No. My father and I were not religious. Madame would invite me to attend Mass with her and Meg on Sundays. I loved the quiet and the music, but, no…" she says, closing the lid on the wooden box. "Our tears will be the baptism, our love will be her blessing."

Erik takes the improvised coffin from her, and places it on top of the cupboard. "I ran a bath for you."

Just act, he tells himself. Do not think about anything. Keeping busy, taking care of practical necessities – creating a place for the baby Christine would approve of – running her bath – focusing on something other than the contents of the small wooden box prevents the scream inside of him from erupting. This had to be his fault – his mother was right, he would always ruin everything.

Christine allows him to undress her, shifting her arms and body when he asks her to. His touch gentle, not wishing to add to her physical pain. Why did he hurry so today – rushing her? Why did he not notice her distress? Thinking of the wedding? Feeling smug about the positive attention he was receiving? Thinking about putting the professor out? No. Not thinking. Do not think.

"Can you walk to the tub?"

"Help me, I feel so weak."

Erik lifts her and places her into the bath, making certain she does not slip. "Is the water all right? I used the lavender scent to help you relax."

"Yes, it feels good – the fragrance is lovely." A deep sigh affirms her words as she settles into the warmth of the bath. "Not too hot, not too cold, like the fairy tale. Papa loved the old children's stories. Just right."

"Recline, rest your head on the pillow." Taking his time, he uses a small sponge lathered with soap to wash her. "Um, uh, your legs…private parts…they are…do you wish to cleanse yourself?"

"No, you." Adjusting her position, she smiles at him. "Thank you for taking care of me."

A small grunt is his only reply – he cannot trust himself to speak…or to meet her eyes. The focus must be on her care. Time enough for recriminations.

"I know what you are thinking, Erik. You did nothing wrong. Gustave is perfect and he is your son. These things happen. You must not blame yourself. Or withdraw from me. I will not allow it."

"I only want you to be happy."

"You better than anyone knows that is not guaranteed. I am happy we have each other. We shall bear this together." Holding out her hand, she says, "Help me up. Gustave will be home soon."

He guides her from the tub and wraps her in a large towel, holding her close. They stand this way for might be minutes or hours.

Pulling away, she walks to the credenza and opens a drawer removing fresh undergarments.

Gustave bounds through the front door. His usual, "I am hooooome" is cut short when he sees his parents walking slowly down the short hallway. Papa Y appears to be holding her up. He stops, cocking his head. Why were they coming from the bathroom together? Maman is in her night clothes. What is that box? They look so sad. He cannot remember her looking this way even the night on the pier. Everyone has been so happy. His stomach churns, afraid to ask…afraid not to.

"What is wrong?"

Christine hands the box to Erik and opens her arms to the boy. "Come here, darling. Maman and Papa Y have some sad news."

Gustave's eyes move from his mother to his father and then back to the sewing kit. Time seems to stop. Oh, no. He was not happy about having to share Maman and Papa Y – for a while he wished there would be no baby. They were so happy, though, and Papa Y assured him nothing would be any different – if anything, life would be better. Maman never lied to him, so he would trust their words. Now he wanted the baby more than anything else in the world. "It…he…she is…gone?"

"Yes," Erik says.

Gustave runs into his mother's arms. Erik embraces both of them, pressing his lips to the top of Christine's head.

"I wanted her, I really did," Tears cause him to choke on the words. "I…I was going to name her Angelique."

"That was a lovely choice, darling."

"Perfect. She truly is an angel now – with her grandfather, watching over us."

Christine presses her head against Erik's chest. "Thank you for that."

"I like that idea, Papa Y."

"Angels take their jobs very seriously – he will take very good care of her. Very good care."


	18. I Am Here With You, Beside You

I Am Here With You, Beside You

"Do you want me to leave a light on for you?" Erik asks Gustave, as he finishes tucking him in. "As I recall, you sometimes have bad dreams."

"Just leave the curtains open – I like to see the sky," the boy answers, snuggling down into the bed.

"Good enough." Erik walks to the window and adjusts the ties so the room is flooded with moonlight. "You are certain this is what you want…the shadows…"

"I like to make up stories about the shadows, it helps me sleep."

"You certainly are my son." Erik allows himself a chuckle. The boy is so much like him, yet with a loving heart Erik never thought he could possess himself. He was learning, but this is damnably hard. Why did the baby have to die? A part of him wanted to curse whatever it was in the universe that seemed determined to damn everything in his life that brought him joy. But he pulled himself up short – this beautiful child was his son. The boy's mother loved and wanted him. His precious angel. Why did she have to suffer, though?

"Papa Y?"

"Yes, son."

"Did you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No, I did not."

"Were you lonely?"

"Yes, I was often lonely. I loved music and I loved to read and draw buildings like my father – so that filled my time." This was turning into one of Gustave's nights of a thousand questions. Was that so terrible, he himself had boundless curiosity. The boy was also troubled about the events of the day – so many changes in his life in such a short period of time. Still, he felt old wounds being re-opened. Unlike the physical remnants of his past, harsh emotional memories never scarred over. They only lay waiting for the scab to be picked and the bleeding start again.

"Did your papa play with you?"

"No. My father died just before I was born. There was an accident…a building he was working on had a flaw and collapsed."

"Before?" Gustave's eyes widen. "Oh, no, that is terrible."

"Yes, I was born on the day he was buried."

"So you spent a lot of time with your Maman?"

"No. My mother found my presence unpleasant. I suppose it was because of my father's death. She mourned for a very long time."

"She did not like your face."

"She did not like my face," Erik agrees, fingering his mask. "I have always worn a mask of some sort, but I suspect she did not like me in general. In retrospect, I cannot blame her – I could be very petulant and annoying. She was quite young and losing her husband, then giving birth to a child looking as I did…well, she was quite distressed with the fate life bestowed on her."

"Did you have no one to play with?"

"There was a nice lady, Marie, who took care of me sometimes and I had a lovely dog named Sasha," Erik says. At last, a break in the questioning – proud of himself for not breaking down or becoming cross. Perhaps he was changing. "Speaking of which, Mr. Khan and I were talking about getting you a dog. Would you like that?"

Gustave face breaks into a wide grin. "Really, I can have a dog? Our gardener in Paris had a dog he would bring with him every day. I used to play with her – her name was Missy. Pere Raoul did not want any dogs in the house. He said they were messy and he had no time to train one. I would train the dog. I promise."

"We shall have to ask your mother, but I think a pet might be nice. If not a dog, perhaps a kitty."

"Oh, yes, a kitty would be fine." Gustave claps his hands. "Chef has a cat for catching mice. He said if she has babies, I can have one – if you and Maman say it is all right. I did not want to ask because...well, if there was a baby, having a kitten might not be a good idea."

"I do not think there would be a conflict, but your mother would have to approve in any event."

The burst of excitement lighting his face vanishes. "Is she going to be all right?"

"I believe so. She is just very sad right now and does not feel entirely well."

"Did the baby hurt?"

Erik cocks his head, a wry smile curves his lips. The mysteries of life and death – how does it feel to die? There were a number of times he came close – in every instance from being beaten by the gypsies to being fed the ground glass in Persia – he recalls he was in pain, but does not recall the pain itself. Death had not come and he recovered. The mind does protect one at least while awake. Dreams were another story entirely, but even those were becoming kinder.

Does a child so tiny, barely formed, know pain? Quite likely – the nervous system is present. Is there consciousness? Unlikely, but who is he to say? Brushing the boy's hair away from his brow, he says, "I cannot honestly say. It is quite thoughtful of you to consider the idea, however."

Gustave shrugs. "I just wondered. I hope not," he says. "Is Maman going to come in to kiss me good-night?"

"Yes, she is," Christine announces from the doorway. A rose pink dressing gown replaces the stained green dress, giving her wan face an illusion of color. "I am sorry, I only meant to nap for a few minutes – I wanted to bring you this." _This_ being a tray holding 3 mugs of cocoa and a small plate of cookies. "I see you are already tucked in."

"Nothing that cannot be remedied," Erik says, taking the tray from her and pulling a chair over to the bedside. He waits for Gustave to scoot back up and Christine to sit down before handing each of them a mug, taking one himself, before offering the cookies.

"I like this."

"Do not get used to it, young man. I simply wanted to remind you how much you mean to me."

Erik situates himself behind her, massaging her shoulder with his free hand.

Christine crooks her head to look up at him. "I never knew that about your father…or very much about your childhood…except for those words you spoke after…" She cuts off her comment, aware of Gustave's eyes focused on her.

So much of her past with Erik was fraught with conflict. So much of Erik's past itself was fraught with conflict. More than she could ever imagine, even if she tried. He would always answer any questions she had – primarily those times when they were intimate and she could see the scars covering his body as witness to torture and abuse no one should suffer.

Generally, he responded with a few words. This was from the time I ran with the Thuggees in India, they taught me how the Punjab lasso was use…by using it on me. This was from the guards at the Shah's palace when I refused to obey an order. He seldom went into detail – protecting her from the horrors that formed the man who felt the need to pretend to be an angel in order to speak with her.

"After what, Maman? When did Papa Y tell you about when he was small?"

"When I was performing at the Opera House and Papa Y was teaching me how to sing."

"You said _after_ something happened."

Erik and Christine exchange a troubled look. Gustave's eyes shift back and forth between them.

Christine sighs. Her son's curiosity is both bonus and bane. "Gustave, I am not sure this is the time…it is late…"

Erik squeezes her shoulder. "No time like the present, my dear, it is all right." he says. "Raoul and I were both in love with your mother. We were very angry with one another."

"Like when we came here?"

"Something like that, only it was more serious. A lot of other people were mad at me, too."

"Who? What did you do?"

"They thought I hurt someone else and I ran away, taking your mother. So they chased me…us. I told her during my life people would chase or hurt me because of my face. No one understood that it was just a face, not a person. That it made me angry and I would want to hurt people back."

Nodding in agreement, Gustave says, "I understand. I get mad when someone hurts me, too."

Christine frowns. "Did someone harm you? Why did you not tell me?"

"When I wanted to play piano instead of soccer, they said I was a sissy. One of the boys knocked me down…he saw my funny ear and said I was a deformed freak."

"Gustave, oh, my darling boy. I did not know." She cries. How did all of this happen? Was she so wrapped up in her own misery, she did not see what was happening to Gustave. She should have left – after she started singing again, she should have left. Money would have been sparse, but her own weakness bound her to life with the Chagnys.

"What did you do?" Erik asks.

"I punched him in the nose."

"Good for you."

"Erik!"

"He defended himself. There is nothing wrong with defending yourself against a bully."

"I suppose you are right." Raoul was a bully. Much as she tried to avoid the thought, he was. Thank god Gustave has such a good papa now. Thank god, she had such a good…fiancé…husband…angel. The irony being that had anyone been asked, Raoul would have been given those plaudits.

"The problem arises if _you_ become the antagonist," Erik continues, smiling down at the boy. "I do not see that being a problem with our young man. Judging from our conversation tonight, he appears to be quite the diplomat."

"Are you having problems with anyone now – here at Phantasma?" Christine asks, still concerned. From all appearances, Phantasma was free of many of the problems she experienced in traveling with her father – lack of shelter and food, the primary concerns. Some of the carnival owners were often cruel to the performers – taunting those who were the least successful, especially if they were growing old or very young.

Of course, this was not a moveable fair or carnival, but Erik had somehow managed to create a family of sorts. Many of the vendors and performers left when the season was over to go south to find other work, but, in leaving, were invited back in the spring. What a different place the Palais Garnier might have been had Erik actually been in charge of the opera and the artists. What a different life they all might have now.

"No." Gustave scrunches his nose. "But Mr. Squelch has me lifting weights. He said I was scrawny…an easy mark for some ruffian with a chip on his shoulder. He said the best way to discourage bullies was to be really strong so they will not bother you in the first place." He pushes up the sleeve of his night shirt and makes a muscle. "See how much stronger I am."

"This is quite scary," Erik laughs, poking the bulge on Gustave's arm. "You may well be following in his footsteps if this is any indication."

"Yes, sir," Gustave puffs up in pride, joining him in the laughter. "I love him so much."

"Good – I am glad all of that is settled," says Christine. "Now, it is time for sleep. Are you finished with your chocolate?"

"Yes." He hands his cup to Erik.

Christine tucks him in once more, kissing him on the forehead. "Sleep well."

"Good night. I hope you feel better in the morning, Maman."

"I shall do my best."

"Can I fix you something to eat – something more nutritious than cookies?" Erik asks as he washes up the cups and pot Christine used to heat the milk. "You barely touched your meal. No desire for pickled herring?"

"Ewww, no," she laughs lightly, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her head on his back, breathing in his cologne the intriguing combination of cinnamon and myrrh*. At one time she believed it to be the smell of death. Erik explained the oils were sacred and were often used on dead bodies, thus the association she made.

"I thought that fish was like manna from heaven for you."

"Not at the moment." Letting him go, she sits down at a small round breakfast table, picking at the table cloth. "You are such a good father."

"His mother raised a good son – he is easy to love and spend time with – if sometimes more inquisitive than is comfortable."

A tear drop falls on her folded hands. She stares at the single bead of water wondering how many more she would shed before the sorrow overwhelming her stops. The sobs follow, twisting her gut, the pain fighting to get out.

Erik drops the towel he has been using to dry the dishes. Falling to his knees in front of her, he cradles her in his arms – rocking her, humming one of his nameless melodies into her ear.

She nuzzles her head under his chin. After a while, the tears stop. "I cannot remember ever feeling so weary." The weight of the baby's death is so heavy. Even more than Pappa's – what might she have done to prevent this happening? Why was her body not a safe haven? Erik believes he is at fault, but she was the guardian. Things had been going so well for all of them – how does one recover from the death of a child?

"Let me put you to bed – we can worry about food tomorrow," he says, rising to his feet, offering his hands to help her up. "I will prepare some tea and a remedy called Ignatia for your grief. Do you wish to visit the bathroom first?"

"Yes, I suppose that would be wise."

Closing the door behind her, she presses her back against the solid wood, fighting off a new round of tears threatening to flow. When Mamma died, she cried. The memory was vague, but she recalled tugging on Rebecca's nightdress, demanding she wake up and Pappa peeling her fingers away from the heavy flannel. His own grief put aside to deal with hers. He never cried in front of her – not in the fourteen years they travelled Europe playing at fairs and carnivals and taverns and on street corners. When he felt assured she was sleeping, he would grieve for his bride. Christine would hold back her own tears, not wishing to disturb his moments of mourning. On those nights, they both cried themselves to sleep alone.

Losing him nearly tore her apart – a night did not go by during his last days when she did not pray her father not be taken from her. She was so alone – the Girys were good to her…to them, but Pappa was Pappa. It was only when Erik appeared as the Angel of Music, did the pain lift from her heart. His music, their music. She so wanted him to be a man, but when he became a man, it frightened her. Then Raoul appeared confusing her even more. More tears, so many tears. So much loss.

"Why, God?"

A small cramp brings her back to herself. Putting memories to the side, she goes through her bedtime ablutions – unpinning her hair grown messier as the day went on. Taking her time, she combs the curls before making a single braid, securing it with a white satin ribbon.

Following the routine for her monthly cycle, she replaces her disposable pad – putting the used one in a bag with others for burning. How long would the bleeding continue – the cleansing her womb? An idle thought crosses her mind about the stain on her dress. The skirt might have to be cut and remade. The green silk was a favorite of hers and she would hate having to discard it. Mathilda, the head seamstress, was helping remake her wedding dress, she would simply add the day dress to their tasks.

A final look in the mirror at a face that was different, yet the same as the one she viewed that morning. Her eyes red and puffy from the tears. Although naturally pale, her skin tone was creamy with a natural pink blush to her cheeks. Now it appeared the blood had been drained leaving a white visage that might rival one of Erik's porcelain masks. A splash of cold water brought some color back and calmed the inflammation around her eyes. This will have to do. Perhaps the remedy was starting to work, she was feeling calmer. Sleep will be good – not having to think for a while.

A single table lamp casts a golden glow in her bedroom. It takes her a moment to see Erik. Her heart skips as beat…for a moment she is concerned he straightened the bedclothes and left. A silly thought, she realizes when she spies him sitting in the wing chair next to the window overlooking the sea. His shirt is open at the neck, sleeves rolled up – jacket, waistcoat and cravat folded neatly on her vanity bench. His hands rest on the arms of the chair, fingers strangely quiet, legs spread out in front of him. The porcelain half-mask lies on the end table.

What must have gone through his mind? Blaming himself.

She must remind him how often the ballet rats at the Garnier experienced the same loss. For most, they were grateful for what they considered an easy ending to a difficult situation. No need for the midwife to assist the passing of an unwanted child. They could maintain a relationship with their patron…or another. She often wondered about Madame and Meg. Had Madame wished Meg never been born? There was so much she did not know about the two women, even having lived with them.

When she realized she was pregnant with Gustave, she believed the child was Erik's and prayed no one would know or guess. The marriage to Raoul immediately following her night with Erik, gave her protection from questions. That his father's deformity was present, but hidden, was a blessing. Had it not – well, she would have done whatever was necessary to care of the baby. Oh, how she wished Erik could have been there. How grateful she was for this second chance.

"How long are you going to stand there looking at this wreckage, my love?" Rising from the chair, he walks over to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "You need to get some rest."

She allows him to lead her to the bed to sit down. "I thought you were asleep – I did not wish to disturb you. Besides, I love looking at you."

"Then you truly are a madwoman." He picks up a cup and saucer from the night stand, handing it to her. "Here, drink this, it will ease you."

Holding the cup to her lips, she breathes in the sweet fragrance of the chamomile before taking a sip. "Are you all right? Gustave was in rare form tonight – even for him."

"I think he was anxious. Had I thought of it, I should have taken him for a long walk on the beach to burn of some energy," Erik says. "In any event, he was asking reasonable questions."

"Come to bed with me."

"The boy…we agreed…" he says, shaking his head. "I will sit here until you fall asleep."

"You will sleep in this bed with me tonight and every night hereafter," she says, handing him the cup.

"I do not sleep well – I might disturb you." He sets the cup and saucer back on the table.

"Then I will deal with that when and if it happens. I cannot bear to be alone – not now, not ever – for as long as we are blessed with life."

"If you are certain," he says.

"I am certain," she says, taking his hands, pressing them to her lips. "We have spent too much time apart. If today taught me anything, it is not to take this…you for granted."

Caressing her cheek, he says, "Very well, but do not say I did not warn you."

Looking up, she examines his face – there is no humor in his eyes – he is not joking with her. "What happened to you? Even the abbreviated explanation you gave Gustave…and your scars…you do not sleep?"

"When I sleep, I dream, but this is not the time to be discussing my sleep habits," he says, drawing her up, so that he might turn down the bed before helping her remove her dressing gown. "We shall talk, but for now, you need rest. Tomorrow we shall speak to the doctor."

Slipping under the covers, sliding to the other side of the bed, making room for him, she pats the bed. "Come."

Removing his trousers, he folds them over the arm of the wing chair. Keeping his shirt and drawers on, he turns off the light, toes off his shoes and stockings, before joining her in the four poster, drawing the duvet over the two of them.

Christine snuggles close to him, pulling his arm around her, resting her head on his shoulder. "This is how things should be."

"I have never slept with anyone before," he says. "I am afraid I will roll over and hurt you."

"I, too, am unused to sleeping with anyone…be assured, I will advise you, if you are in any way disturbing me." With that she kisses him lightly on the cheek and closes her eyes.

"You did not sleep with…"

"No, I did not sleep with…" she mimics him. "Your tea is working. I am very sleepy."

"Chamomile – good for the nerves…pain…"

"Shush. Go to sleep."

"As if it was that easy," he mutters, kissing her forehead. Feeling her warm body pressed against his, the scent of lavender blending with her sweet breath on his neck settles him. The dance of the shadows on the ceiling are hypnotic, encouragement to push the events of the day from his mind. His eyelids soon grow heavy and with a deep sigh, he joins Christine in peaceful slumber.

*Please check out my one shot of the same name on FFN


	19. Let Me Lead You From Your Solitude

Let Me Lead You From Your Solitude

"Good morning," Erik calls over his shoulder, at the sound soft footsteps in the hallway outside the kitchen. "Your timing is perfect, as always."

The apartment is filled with the aroma of baking biscuits, melting butter and coffee. Eggs are whisked to a froth, to which Erik adds a pinch of salt and a smattering of ground pepper – with that, the omelet base is ready for the hot pan.

"Where did you go?" Christine asks, coming up behind him to wrap her arms around his waist. "You should have wakened me."

"I am sorry, were you concerned?" He turns so that he can gather her close to him, pressing his lips against her forehead, then nuzzling his nose in her mussed bangs. "I seldom sleep well, although I must admit having you near me allowed me more than the few hours I generally lie in bed."

"I am glad you were able to rest – I…I just missed you."

"In the future, I will make certain you know I am getting up – would that be acceptable?"

"Yes, although I hope you learn to sleep longer."

"We shall see," he says. "For the moment, I am preparing you an omelet and the pan is ready for the batter, so demands my attention."

Leaning against the counter, she watches as he carefully pours the eggs into the pan, making certain the mixture covers the bottom evenly. As the edges curl up, he moves the mixture to the center, the eggs cooking evenly, then adds some chopped herbs and some fingersful of grated white cheese. "Is there a reason you do not sleep while in bed? I see you drift off sometimes when you are at the piano writing music or sitting in your armchair – which tells me you need more rest."

"You are most observant – even after the relatively short time we have been together."

"I told you I liked to watch you. Did you not believe me?"

"I believe I called you a madwoman."

"That may be so, but I do – you are quite entertaining – even with half your face covered, your expressions are quite telling. This does not take into consideration of your hands – they are storytellers on their own and quite fascinating."

Erik's face turns bright red. "I had no idea – here I thought I was a man of mystery."

"No, my dear, you are quite the open book," she laughs. "I see you went upstairs to your flat."

He looks down at his clothing – dressing gown, slippers, a fresh shirt and gray flannel trousers. "I could not see wearing a business suit for breakfast. I did bring down some other clothing," he says. "I put them in the armoire for the outer garments – I hope that is all right."

"Perfectly so," she says, moving to the stove to pour herself a cup of coffee. "I thought you did not want me to drink coffee."

"It really is not good for your voice, but I thought you might like it as a treat." Going to the small ice box, he sets a pitcher of cream on the table next to the sugar bowl. "Are you hungry?"

"Surprisingly, yes," she says sitting down at the table, pushing aside a dish with the remnants of the food from another breakfast. "Gustave has eaten?"

"Eaten and off to his English lessons with Miss Fleck," he says, putting the plate in front of her, with the addition of a soda biscuit, a dab of butter and a spoonful of strawberry jam. "We may want to think about putting him into school soon."

Christine's brow furrows.

"Why the frown?"

"He is getting a much better education here from the Trio and you than any school might," she says. "His confession about punching that other boy last night has me concerned."

"He handled himself well, I thought. Besides he needs to be socialized with children his own age – in normal society."

"Neither of us were socialized in normal society…"

"My point exactly – at least in my case."

Sniffing at his comment, her pink lips form a moue. "I suppose you are right – but can we speak of it some other time, I am not prepared to send him off every day into another strange new world. His life has suffered enough upset…and I am not ready to let him go."

"I suppose waiting until the fall cannot hurt," he says, picking up Gustave's dishes, putting them in the sink. "I did not mean to upset you – I am not very good at this. My habit has always been to either pretend there is no pain or to simply ignore it. Of course, such behavior created a monster."

"You are not a monster."

"There are those who might argue with you," he grunts. Folding the omelet in half, he allows the eggs to cook a while longer before plating it for her. "Voila! Enough about me – eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

Tasting a bite of the omelet, she moans in appreciation.

"Good?"

"Good."

"How are you feeling – physically?"

"Better, I would say," she says, cautiously. "I think the worst is over in that regard."

"I sense you do not wish to see a doctor?'

"You sense correctly," she says, putting three lumps of sugar in her cup, stirring them in to melt before adding a sizeable dollop of cream, causing the liquid to overflow into the saucer.

"Perhaps I should have just offered you the cream," Erik chuckles.

"I must admit, I do like cream…another forbidden item to my diet."

"At very least, you need to rest for a few days. I was thinking of asking Dr. Gangle to come by – just to get his opinion. Would that be comfortable for you?"

"Yes, it would, I had quite forgotten he is really a medical doctor."

"You told no one about the pregnancy?"

"Only Mathilda – the wardrobe mistress – in truth, she told me," Christine says, touching her belly. "She was doing some alterations – the gowns sent from France – and commented all of them must be let out. Then her eyes got very large and her face flushed bright red. Giggling, she asked if I was with child and how very happy she was for both of us if that be so."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed. She went on to gush about what a wonderful master you were and how you rescued her from the sweatshop she and her daughter were working in. Said you told her you had never seen finer needlework and deserved better employment. "

"Well, it was true…and her daughter was equally disciplined."

"You are quite the monster."

"Harrumph. I suppose it would be too much to hope that she kept her own counsel."

Christine shrugs. "People talk. Who better to talk about than their master and the new soprano? I can only imagine the speculation circulating about the night on the pier." A bite of the biscuit elicits another groan of appreciation, "What about you – did you tell anyone?"

"Nadir – again he surmised based on an offhand remark I made." Setting another plate on the table, this one holding only a single biscuit, he joins her with his cup of coffee.

"Well, it is comforting to know we have caring and observant people around us."

"Some might call them nosy."

"But in a good way," she says, laughing.

"What about Gustave?"

"I shall ask him. I would rather not too many people know. I do not think I could bear the sad looks…the pity." The sadness overtakes her features again, tears forming, but stopped with her handkerchief before breaking free. "I am sorry. Everything seems so normal for a while – we sit here chatting, laughing at the life going on around us – then I remember the life that will not be here…oh, Erik."

He jumps up from his chair, circling the table to embrace her.

Christine wraps her arms around his waist. "I do not know what to do or think or say. I want to rail at the gods or God or whoever has the power over life and death. Why did our child have to die?"

Erik rocks her back and forth, stroking her hair, holding back his own tears. "I do not know, my dearest love. Fate. Chance. As a scientist I would say some of the things necessary to make a healthy child were absent. This baby was unable to survive in the womb…so living in the world was out of the question. Difficult as it may be, we must view the miscarriage through this lens. Nature was being protective of all of us – especially our little one."

"You did not want another child…"

"My concern will always be about the appearance of a child born of my seed, Christine, something that is not likely to change. Having said that, I would adore any child born of our love."

"So you would want to have another baby?"

"If that is what you wish – you are the one to control that decision."

"When I am better."

"Most certainly," he says, stroking her cheek. "Do you think you can eat now? You really need to take care of yourself."

"All right. She takes another bite of the eggs, closing her eyes. "This is delicious – I still cannot get used to how well you cook. I am humbled by your gifts."

"You turn my head…eggs, some herbs and cheese."

"If it is so easy, why can I not master the skill?"

"You have other gifts that more than make up for any lack of cooking expertise." Taking a sip from his own cup of black coffee, he relaxes in his chair – the moment of grief passed, grateful for the ability to make her smile. Hoping the healing will continue.

"Are you not going to have anything besides the roll…and do not tell me you ate with Gustave because there was only one dirty plate on the table."

"Found out, am I?"

"You never seem to eat very much."

"More observations – watching this wreck?"

"Stop referring to yourself in that way. Some of the most handsome and beautiful people are ugly inside."

An eyebrow quirk is his response.

"Yes, I know, you are going to tell me what a wretched human being you have been."

"Truth."

"That was the past," she says. "Do not try to distract me – I know there is some terrible reason you do not eat."

"I get distracted – thinking about other things, working on my music…"

"There is nothing distracting you now."

"You are distracting me." Picking up his fork, he reaches across the table to purloin some of her omelet.

"Stop it," she says, smacking him lightly. "Make one for yourself."

"Madame does not wish to share a mere morsel of food with her poor lover, particularly since she has been accusing him of starving himself?"

"Flirting will not work – you should know that by now."

"Are you certain?"

"Time is up, Monsieur, confess." The words are said with humor, her eyes gentle, but with an edge of concern. "What happened? Please. Tell me."

"I insulted the shah at a celebration of the marriage of his sister."

"Why would you do that?"

"Why would I not?" A smirk twists his lips. "Christine, my dearest love, you know me well enough to understand something of my arrogance. When I was much younger, my hubris was that much greater. I was a brilliant architect, a master musician – there was nothing I could not do, except leave." The golden eyes look through her to a distant past of wealth and an overabundance of everything beautiful and evil. To a court where he both ruled and was enslaved.

Shifting his focus back to her, he continues. "I performed a trick – quite an amazing trick – raising a skeleton from the dead, if you will. Of course, I took it a step further and showed how the trick was accomplished." Pulling her plate toward him, he takes another bite of food.

"I still do not understand."

"I was angry about the marriage – the husband of his sister had just died and here she was being sold off like a piece of chattel for political reasons. I mocked the marriage and the man she was marrying."

"I cannot believe you wanted to die."

"Perhaps I did, but was it my conscious decision? No, however, in my anger and misguided sense of position, I let down my guard."

"Someone tried to kill you? But what does that have to do with your not wanting to eat?"

"I was poisoned. I was given some wine and drank it without having my tasters sample it. Nadir believed there may have been ground glass added to the drink as well – I was spitting up quite a lot of blood." After another bite of food, he says. "This_ is _quite good."

"Be serious." Christine's face loses all color. "How did you survive?"

"To this day, I still do not know," he chuffs, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Nadir said I might have ten days to live, so I insisted we go to the palace. If I were to die, my masterpiece must be seen once more. The contractor in charge made some mistakes and I flew into a rage. Had I been in better health, I might have killed him. Thankfully, I did not and he swore if I told him exactly what I wanted, he would finish to my specifications. That piece of business taken care of, I fell into a coma of sorts – at least that is what Nadir told me."

"Something happened? Did he pray for you?"

Any hint of sarcasm disappears with his next words. "He brought his son, Reza, to see me. I would learn later how Reza insisted – how he repeated over and over how his music man was broken and how I must fix it – how I was the only one who _could_ fix it."

"How much longer were you in the coma?"

"Over night – the next morning I woke up and asked Nadir why I was not advised the toy was broken."

"Love healed you – the love of a sweet child."

"I would repay the debt by assisting his death not long after that." Pushing his chair back, he rises from the table – turning away from her, pressing the balls of his hands to his temples.

"Oh, Erik."

"Nadir and I have this amazing bond – all tied together with death, near death, escaping death and surviving the death of a loved one – a strange and mystic bond. Reza was sickly – from his birth, which took his mother. He loved me and trusted me." The room is almost too small for him, the recollection so vivid, he struggles to contain his grief, wrapping his arms around himself so as not to begin breaking everything within his reach.

"He was in pain?" The words gentle and calm, she remains seated, watching him, allowing him his grief.

"Yes. Nadir begged to wait. I told him that waiting would only have Reza get worse – there was no miracle to be had – no moment in time when he would feel better."

"That must have been difficult."

"The difficulty is living without him."

Christine nods. "Yes. When Pappa was so sick, I wished I could do something to help him, all I could do was watch him get worse and worse. If I had known a way to ease his pain, as you did for Reza, I believe I would have done the same as you."

Erik shakes his head. "You are humoring me."

"One does not make jokes about killing one's beloved father."

"No, one does not."

"Were your insides somehow damaged – making eating painful in some way?"

Erik nods. "I actually eat quite a bit – just in small increments – as I ate just now, thanks to your generosity," he says with a smile. "If I take in too much food at one time, I overtax my digestive tract. At one time, I used morphine to deal with the pain, but the drug affected my music. I might as well be dead. Now I use other methods to deal with the upsets, none is quite as effective, but I enjoy being conscious."

"How can you be so calm about all of this?"

"I learned early on that crying and complaining brought nothing but more grief." He walks to her chair, taking her shoulders, he bends over to press his cheek against hers. "This is all new to you – the story of my life – I have been living it and have experienced all manner of emotions. I do not want you to bear any of it."

Crossing her arms over her breasts, she takes his hands in hers. "If we are to be married, I must know you…truly know you."

"If you truly knew me, you might not wish to marry me," Erik says.

"That die is already cast."

"We are not yet married."

"Soon."

"You want to go ahead with the ceremony?"

"More now than ever."

"You honor me," he says.

"I love you."

"What a miracle you believe that to be so. Thank you."


	20. See the Very Same Way

_In the good old summertime_

_In the good old summertime_

_Strolling through a shady lane_

_With your baby mine_

_You hold her hand and she holds yours_

_And that's a very good sign_

_That she's your tootsey-wootsey_

_In the good, old summertime._

At the sound of a door closing at the rear of the theater, Erik and Christine stop singing, both turn to look out toward the empty seats – straining to see who has come into the darkened auditorium. The stage lit only by the work light and a small lamp gives no hint as to the person walking down the aisle. "Rudolph?"

"No, it is I, Adele."

Christine smiles, calling out, "Wait for Erik to turn on some lights, Madame."

Erik jogs to the lighting board and flips a switch. The stage comes alive with light, revealing set pieces and scrims stored upstage. Enough light is provided for the couple to not only see his…what…business manager? Friend? He is not certain anymore what role this woman plays in his life. Despite the passage of time and a certain peace made between her and Christine – he has not quite come to terms with the woman he has known much of his life – by his side through all the major events of recent years. With the exception of Nadir, it is she who knows him best – but seemed, ultimately, not to know him at all.

Whoever she is to him now, he does not wish her to fall, recalling the tumble he and Rudolph took a month earlier traipsing down the same aisle. The fateful afternoon preceding Christine's miscarriage. One of those experiences that might have happened yesterday or a lifetime ago. This is the first time Christine has felt well enough to venture out and work on her music.

Something Dr. Gangle highly recommended. Even to suggesting they return to the place where her symptoms first presented. Returning to see there was nothing she did to cause the miscarriage nor anything she might have done to prevent it.

The Master of Ceremonies was perhaps the best doctor she could have seen in these or any other set of circumstances. The skills he always managed to keep up to date were reassuring – there were no complications based on her reports to him. The physical healing was occurring in a timely fashion – better than some he had seen in his years both as a home town physician and as the doctor the women of Phantasma trusted with their personal business. Ultimately, it was compassion combined with his comic ability that had provided laughter alongside her tears.

The maestro is expected shortly, so Adele's surprise appearance is not entirely welcome. However, she is here and he is pleased to see the addition of the stage lights enable her to walk safely toward him. "To what do we owe this honor?" he calls down to her.

The dark-haired woman, treads slowly down the aisle, seeming to lean more heavily on her cane than normal. The wound from the night on the pier may be healed, but left her more infirm than her feet – permanently damaged from dancing. Once a commanding figure – the cane less a crutch to assist her movement, but more the staff of a shepherd keeping the herds of performers and crew in line – was now evidence of her physical frailty. Her body appears to have shrunk in the few short months since the shooting

"Honor is hardly the word I should think you would use in regard to me, but I shall accept it as an indication of your good will." Breathless from her walk, she stops at the pit, taking hold of the rail to catch her breath before proceeding to the stairs up to the stage.

Erik hastens to meet her at the top of the short stairway, taking her arm to guide her to the piano where Christine has secured a chair for her comfort. "Sit down, Madame," she says, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher sitting on a small table situated next to the piano, a catchall for some refreshments, a folder of sheet music and Christine's pale green hand-knit shawl and brocade reticule.

After taking a sip of the water, she says, "Nadir told me I might find you here. I understand you plan to sing with the orchestra during intermissions at the ballroom. I felt I had to speak to you."

"Word does travel," Christine says. "Yes, we were just working on a song that was very popular a few years back that Erik thought would suit my voice. We felt using more familiar songs would be appealing to the people who come to dance."

"Not opera?"

"No, at least not the more serious pieces," Erik says. "The selections will enable the dancers to take a break or continue to dance, or sing along, if they so choose."

"Caruso has quite a following with his operatic recordings."

"Is that what you found so urgent – the nature of the music? While it is true enough about Caruso's popularity….we have plans for recording Christine singing arias as well." Erik's fingers begin tapping the edge of the keyboard.

"For the dancers, however," Christine interjects, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Well, they want to dance and _vesti la giubba_ is not really suitable for ballroom or the new jazz dancing that is becoming so popular."

"All that training and hard work…"

"What do you want, Adele?" Erik barks, slamming down the lid of the keyboard. "I am certain you did not come here to discuss Christine's career choices."

"Actually, I did, in a sense," she says. "This is exactly what happened with Meg. Promises of a dancing career and she winds up doing striptease. Christine tempted with an aria and now you expect her to sing popular music with a dance band."

"That was Meg's decision, not mine," he says, a muscle twitching under his eye, his voice cold and hard. "We were working carnivals and fairs – not too many people interested in Swan Lake at the venues we worked."

"Still, when you opened this theater…"

"Meg was given the opportunity to dance – to be a star – she never complained."

"You would not have listened."

"Adele, both of you were free to leave any time. I told Meg she should go to Manhattan and audition for the ballet."

"You did? She never told me."

"She said you needed her here," he spits. "Had I known why…"

"Stop it – both of you." Christine covers her ears.

Erik stands up taking her by the shoulders, but she shakes him off, taking a step toward Adele's chair. "Madame, with all due respect, my singing career is really none of your business. So, if this is truly why you are here, I suggest you leave now. I am quite frankly tired of hearing how terrible Erik has been to you and Meg. You are grown women, financially secure – more fortunate than many."

Adele pulls back at Christine's vehemence. One last sneer curves her thin lips, colored a deep berry red, before she breaks down, unable to sustain what might have been a last ditch effort at bravado and strength. "I am no good at being soft and needy, yet, here I am."

"This is what you consider soft and needy?" Erik chuckles at the ridiculous statement, satisfied that Christine will do no bodily harm to her former mistress. "You obviously have not watched many romances, Adele. Were you a man, I would have tossed you out on your tail five minutes ago."

"I came to throw myself on your mercy – if you have that potential…"

"So you are looking for what? A job? Yet you preface your request with a full-on assault on Christine and myself – then follow it up with an insult in lieu of an apology?"

"Erik, hear her out," Christine joins him on the piano bench, pressing her body close to his. To Adele, she says, "I suggest you start over again. Whatever history you have with one another…and me – much has changed. I am weary of your complaints, but am open to a new beginning."

"You have certainly taken charge. No longer the shy little bird."

Careful of Christine, Erik stands up, squeezing her shoulder and growls, "Get out. There was a time when I let your tongue run and did nothing to stop you, but things have changed. Neither Christine nor I deserve your obvious contempt."

"Erik."

"No," he says to Christine, taking her hand in his. "She can speak to me however she likes – I owe her a debt and I suppose I deserve her contempt. You, however, have done nothing."

"You are correct. I have lost my ability to be human, it would seem. If Nadir was not present in my life, I would probably die of the rot in my soul," she snickers. "Self-hatred has a way of poisoning everything around you. I feel I am going mad. You would know of that my old friend."

Erik takes her measure. The dark eyes, while still piercing and cold, do hold a bit of sadness. Once again he notices her physical demeanor – shrunken and brittle. "Yes, I understand." He returns to his seat at the piano next to Christine, taking her hand in his. "If you feel you are finally purged of your venom, tell me…us what it is you want."

"A job – something to do." The absence of rage leaves her almost limp, a rag rung dry – her body slumps on the chair, the stick with its handle carved in the shape of a wolf's head, the only thing seeming to keep her upright.

"What sort of job?" Erik asks. "The season is over, you know that staff is limited right now."

"I was busy in years past…"

"Keeping the books – making certain the business was being run properly," Erik says. "You expect me to turn that over to you again after all that has happened?"

"I could work with the wardrobe mistress – I am a competent seamstress…she has been giving me some work to do." Looking at Christine, she says, "Altering your dresses from France – letting them out – while she was making your wedding dress." The deep brown eyes, run up and down Christine's body. "She told me to stop the work a few weeks back – said to wait."

Christine stiffens, squeezing Erik's hand.

"I am sorry," Adele says, finally. "The rumors were all over the place – happily so. Despite our differences, I was pleased to be a part of the new family even in such a small way."

"Since you are already involved with Nadir, it would be easiest to work with him," Erik stands, pressing a hand against Christine's back. Leaning over, he whispers, "I shall be right back."

Walking over to Adele, he takes her arm, helping her from the chair. "He has taken over the finances, such as they are, for the moment. You can probably help him catch up and explain how the books were set up."

"Thank you," she says, looking over his shoulder at Christine, who sits staring in front of her. "I am sorry. I truly did not mean to upset either of you."

"Of course not, you have always been the gentlest of souls, Adele."

With that he helps her down the stairs, to the exit next to the stage. "I trust you know where to find Nadir from here rather than through the lobby."

"Yes."

"Good-bye, then."

Returning his focus to Christine, his eyes go to her hands, her fingers digging into the thick linen of her green dress. The glance to her face confirms his concern – her chin juts out, lips pressed together – in an effort to prevent the tears falling from her eyes. He runs to Christine taking her into his arms, allowing her to release the storm of tears she struggles to hold back. "Damn her," he says.

"If not her, then someone else," Christine says pressing her fingers into his shoulders, gulping back her sobs. They sit for a moment, gathering themselves, riding the wave of a too familiar grief one more time to a relative calm.

"Damn her. Your first time out and she has to fly in like a harpy to disrupt our lives again."

"Whatever her earlier anger, the last comments were not hateful or mean."

"Just nosy."

"A leopard cannot change its spots," she manages to chuckle. "Perhaps this is what dear Gangle had in mind…not Adele, of course, but returning to the scene of the crime – like in mystery books – revealing the truth."

"But there was no crime, please do not tell me you feel you committed some sort of crime."

Bending into him, she rests her head on his shoulder, petting his chest with her hand. "Quite the opposite – I found myself again today. The old bat made me so angry…for you, for Meg, for myself. She is so full of self-pity, I saw how ugly it made her. Then I realized I was falling into a similar pit."

"You are the most positive person I have ever known," Erik protests, wrapping an arm around her. "The light to my darkness."

"You have not be subject to my private rages – the moments when I am alone – when I curse god for everything taken from me. You mistake my quiet for meek acceptance."

"Never have I considered you meek – you are incredibly brave and strong."

"Well, when I lost the baby, all the rage I bottled up throughout my life overwhelmed me. I was horrified by the depth of my own darkness." She turns to look in his eyes. "I think it was the first time I came close to understanding how much like you I really am."

Erik shakes his head. "You? No. Never."

"Yes, I believed losing the baby was punishment for the ugliness I was hiding. The resentment toward my father…Raoul…Meg…Madame."

"Me? If anyone is ugly…"

"No. Stop. You are beautiful – all that beauty underneath you sang about with Gustave is true."

"What does this mean? Dare I ask?"

"Perhaps we need to have a meeting with the staff…let them know the situation, rather than have them guessing and making up stories."

"Are you sure?"

"I want to get married. Let us decide on a date – we can make that announcement and tell them about the baby at that time."

"All of that?"

"Yes. I expect to cry at odd moments – probably for the rest of my life – but live I must."

"Very well – a wedding you shall have – all the bells and whistles, if you like."

"I think I should like a carnival wedding – with the organ playing and colored lights."

For the first time in weeks, Erik sees a spark of light he feared had completely abandoned her eyes. "I suppose we must invite Adele – she seems to have been instrumental in this breakthrough."

"She shall be my matron of honor," Christine laughs.

"That will certainly be a shock to her," Erik says. "I cannot wait to see the transformation of the dour look she always wears."

"Or not see a transformation – that would be more in character."

"True enough," he chuckles. "in either case, worth seeing."


	21. Once It Has Spoken

Once It Has Spoken

"Are you certain you want the entire company present at our nuptials – there was a time when we were going to escape to Pennsylvania with no one present but ourselves?" Erik asks as he escorts Christine and Gustave into what is now the family suite. "I was pleased when Rudolph said he would be honored to have the orchestra perform in the small ballroom."

"He was most generous to give me yet another few days before beginning serious rehearsal," she says, removing her cloak, handing it to Erik who also holds his own cloak, and the sundry other garments the family removes once inside. "Just running through the selections today was most exciting – I cannot wait to perform again."

"I am to learn Lohengrin for when you walk down the aisle, Maman." Gustave helps his father, hanging one garment after another in the armoire.

"Are you certain you want to do a solo?" Christine leaves father and son to their duties and walks to the kitchen. "Who wants tea?"

"Tea is fine for me," Erik replies, shaking out his cloak before placing it on a hook.

"Root beer, please."

"You drink too much root beer."

"With cream, then – it is called a Black Cow." Gustave tosses the rest of the gloves and scarves into a drawer, following his mother into the kitchen.

"Sounds like something that would appeal to your mother as much as she fancies cream." All the clothing taken care of, Erik follows the mother and son into the kitchen. "We just finished dinner, why is everyone so hungry?"

"Just thirsty," Christine says, "and I have a yen for something sweet. This Black Cow sounds just right."

"For three, then." Erik takes three large glasses down from the cupboard next to the sink and gets the pitcher of cream from the refrigerator.

Gustave brings the root beer from the pantry and the drinks are prepared. Each takes a glass and the small processional returns to the sitting room.

Erik releases a deep sigh as he falls into his arm chair.

"I asked him about a duet…he said he would think about it." Gustave addresses the question about his solo.

"Any reason why he might not want to – did he say?" Christine asks.

"Something about family and not wanting to intrude."

"Do you suppose it might be about his being Jewish?" Christine asks. "The ceremony is not Christian nor any sect. Maybe because it will not be Jewish, perhaps that is forbidden by his faith – Catholics are quite opposed to mixing religions."

Erik frowns, shaking his head. "The difficulty might not be the ceremony itself, but the officiant."

"Nadir?" Christine says. "Because he is Persian?"

"Because he is Muslim," Erik says. "I have always been aware of the negativity some groups have toward those who are different – one of the reasons I created Phantasma was to create a place where _freaks _could exist without prejudice – at least where they live. I suspect both our friends have suffered bigotry of one form or another."

"But why would they not like each other?" Gustave asks as he flops down on the settee, holding his glass at arm's length so as not to spill any of his drink. Safely in his seat, he leans forward to grab a cookie from the dish on the coffee table.

"The animosity between Muslims and Jews dates back to the time before Christ and the prophet Abraham. The birth of Christ set off another set of religious issues. In any event, Abraham was promised that he would have a child who would lead Israel. The problem was his wife Sarah was 90 years old and childless. She gave her maid, to Abraham to have a child, however, she ultimately did have the son that was promised - Isaac.

Erik sips his black cow. "Mmmm, this is quite good – why have we not been selling this in the park?"

"What else, Papa Y?"

"This created problems, as you might imagine and Hagar, the maid, was sent away to the desert with her son Ishmael, whom Abraham loved, but was honoring God's wishes about Isaac. Both sons had large families, but there would always be discord about their inheritance. As Abraham's first born, Ishmael was recognized as the patriarch of Islam and his descendant, Muhammed would be the leader of a great nation."

Christine sits down next to Gustave, tipping her glass to his before taking a sip. "I was raised in the Lutheran faith, but as Pappa and I traveled more and more, we discovered different Christian beliefs and when we settled in France, we found Catholicism dominant there. Neither of us was very religious, although Pappa did believe in God and we prayed every night."

"My knowledge of Biblical history is scant, when I traveled in the East I learned of Buddhism, Hindu and others. Although the story itself is quite fascinating – my primary awareness is Christians, Jews, and Muslims do not have the same beliefs about god and this has created a number of holy wars over the centuries and a basic dislike on more personal levels."

"What about when you were in Persia – Nadir was your friend," Gustave asks. "Did you go to church with him?"

"Nadir never spoke too much about his faith. God has never been at the top of my list of interests – our relationship has always tended to be one of avoidance. He does not like me and I do not like him," he says with a smirk. "As for Nadir, I know he was kind to me because of it. Caring for others is known as ihsan: adopting an attitude of ensuring better for others and less for oneself. Darius seems to be more the follower, although his relationship with Meg, suggests a wavering now that he lives here in America."

"So you think Maestro Rudolph would not wish to participate in the wedding for that reason? He does not like Uncle Nadir and Darius?

"I think what Papa Y I saying is that he may not feel welcomed by them – although I suspect that is not the case. Your father can address the issue – I do not see it being a problem," Christine explains, tousling the boy's soft brown hair. "You need a haircut young man."

"No," he says, jerking his head away, smoothing his hair over his right ear. "My hair is fine, I like it long."

Erik and Christine exchange a worried look. "Has someone been teasing you?"

"No. It is nothing."

"It is not nothing if someone has been abusive," Erik insists.

"What happened?" Christine asks, keeping her hands to herself, but staring at him in such a way that he must acknowledge her.

"Is that a bruise under your eye?" Erik tips the boy's chin, gently moving his head back and forth, looking for any other marks.

"I ran into a piece of scenery."

"Gustave, do not lie to your mother and do not lie to me," Erik growls. "What happened?" The rage rising inside of him is frightening – he has not had such a reaction since when – so many years. The hate imbedded in him for those who would see only his face. Christine changed that. Here, of all the places in the world for his son to find such rejection was beyond his comprehension, Phantasma was a sanctuary for the odd and misplaced.

Gustave draws back.

The fear in the hazel eyes, strikes a chord – Erik pulls up short…looking to Christine. The gentle, calm in her eyes, soothes him. Controlling his anger, he returns his attention to Gustave. Perching on the arm of the sofa, he places a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Tell me."

"I overheard a couple of kids talking to a chorus girl…about how Maman came here and took you away from Mlle. Meg. You were going to get married, but then the _Vicomtesse…" _imitating the snotty tone of his attackers. "…came from France with her bastard son and said he...I was your son and now you were going to marry her, not Meg." He jumps up from the sofa, stamping his foot. "Meg tried to kill me. She is crazy. You would not want to marry her – why would you?"

Erik grabs him around his waist, preventing his running away. Sliding down the edge of the settee, he pulls Gustave onto his lap. Christine moves closer to both of them, taking Gustave's hands in hers

"Your mother and I are going to be married. She is the only woman I ever wished to marry. This does not mean others might believe something else. There were many stories being passed around over the years – that I might marry Meg was one of them. Gossip is a dangerous thing and it can cost you dearly. Some of it we can fix, just by living the truth. None of it is worth fighting over. Although I admire you defending your mother's honor."

"You know that Meg is sorry for what happened, do you not?" Christine asks. "She has told you as much and you forgave her."

"I guess," he mumbles. "She was there and told the three of them to shut up, get back to decorating for the shower, and to leave me alone."

"That sounds to me as though she was telling them their stories were false."

"It just reminded me, is all. One of the boys tousled my hair and when I pushed his hand away, I got hit."

"So no fight?"

"He should not have touched me," Gustave says, rubbing the spot on his cheek. "He should not have spoken about either of you in such a way."

"True enough," Christine says, caressing his cheek with her hand, avoiding the bruise and his hair.

"Decorating? Shower?" Erik pauses, narrowing his eyes. "When did you see all these people? You were supposed to be taking your English lessons while we were rehearsing with Maestro Rudolph."

"Um…"

"Where have I heard that before?" Christine asks, taking him by the shoulders. "Um?"

Gustave, looks down and away.

"What have you been up to?" There is a twinkle in her eye as she looks up at Erik, her mouth struggles to maintain a firm line, no grins.

"I am not supposed to tell – it is a secret."

"Something you are obviously not good at keeping," Christine, lifts his chin so he is facing her.

"Do not make me tell," he pleads. "Papa Y, please, I promised and it is wrong to break a promise."

Erik quirks an eyebrow at Christine. "What do you think? I should not like our son be considered someone who goes back on his word."

"No more fighting?"

"No, ma'am, I swear."

"No more secrets," Erik grunts.

"Yes, sir, no fighting or secrets." Relief is painted on the boy's round face. "May I go to bed now?"

"Wash your face really well," Erik says. "There is a jar that says "arnica" on it. Rub that on that bruise and any other you may find, but only if there is no open wound – otherwise, just make certain the area is clean."

"Yes, Papa Y." Gustave jumps up from the settee and set off for his bedroom, stopping and coming back. "May I take the rest of my Black Cow to my room?"

Christine rolls her eyes. "Yes, you may have your drink…and a kiss, please."

"I shall speak to both Rudolf and Nadir – the three of us together. I refuse to let our marriage and the beginning of our new life be damaged by ancient religious issues and old gossip," Erik mutters as he guides Christine from the sitting room down the hall to their bedroom.

After a quick look down the hall, noting Gustave's door is ajar, but his lamp out, Erik closes the door behind them. Each goes to their respective armoires to change into their night wear. The frantic tearing off the other's clothing that marked the first months they were together replaced by this more sedate and decidedly unromantic disrobing with the aim of nothing more than sleep. Their pattern since the miscarriage. An undertow of sadness surrounding both of them. A time for comfort. Passion put to one side in favor of simply being held. Then, hopefully, sleep. Blessed nepenthe.

"I hope they will perform a duet, to be honest. Piano and violin – I intimated to Rudolph I believed it would suit the venue and our wishes for both a grand celebration, yet one that was personal, as well," Christine says as she slips into a cream silk charmeuse dressing gown from the armoire in their bedroom, the neckline and sleeves trimmed with ivory Chantilly lace. "It appears the staff are preparing their own celebration for us."

"So it would seem. I am both surprised and happy Meg is involved," he says, kicking off his shoes. Clothed now in only his shirt and drawers, he crosses his arms, leaning against the armoire – admiring the woman who will always be his angel. The time since losing the baby found her losing some weight, but her face matured…as if she could be more beautiful…she wore the grief well, if something like that was possible. Reminiscent of when he first saw her – following the death of her father. Although suffering a deep sorrow, a fierce grace shone from within in her – damning the universe for taking a loved one from her.

"Is this new?" Erik asks.

"For our wedding night – I fancied it when I went to visit Mr. Hammerstein for my audition."

"You were certain, even then?"

"I was certain the first time I heard your voice – truth be told," she confesses, as she raises her arms to pull the pins from her hair, allowing the locks to cascade over her shoulders. "My feelings frightened me so – the idea of wanting a man in such a way. It was easier to pretend you were an angel."

"You knew?" he says, unable to take his eyes from her – the rich fabric molding itself to her form.

"My father spun his stories, but I spent too many days and nights in roadside inns to believe in angels."

"You said this was for our wedding night…"

"A lady can always change her mind," she says, sashaying toward him, looking up at him from under long dark lashes.

Encouraged by her flirtation, he wraps his long arms fold around her, one hand holding her head to his chest, his lips pressed against the chestnut curls, scented with lavender. Her cologne of choice these days since the miscarriage – the fragrance soothing and calming to both of them.

"This has been quite the day." After a moment, he chuckles.

"Whatever do you find amusing?" Her mouth forming a pout. "I attempt to seduce you and you laugh?"

"I was thinking of how peaceful it was living beneath the Palais."

Swatting him in the shoulder, Christine joins in his laughter. "Oh, you were not…were you?"

"Only those times when you came to visit – to sing. Moments of sheer bliss."

"I must say they were happy times in their own way. Not so blissful as we have been here, though," she snuggles closer to him, thrusting her hips against his groin. "I dare say you would prefer more intimacy?"

"Do not feel you must offer yourself to me if you are not ready." Erik holds her at arms' length, cocking his head. "Just having you close is perfection."

"I want to be one with you again. Hold me, tightly as you can. I need the sense of you next to me. The comfort you give, healing me," she says, pushing his arms down and slipping the straps of the gown from her shoulders. "I want that closeness – especially after a day such as this one."

"Are you certain? It is not too soon?"

Taking his hand, she presses it to her breast. "Is this too soon for you?"

His breath hitches as he shakes his head. "No. I would say this is perfect." As he scoops her into his arms, the negligee falls to the floor. Noticing, he stops.

"Leave it, I shall have no need for a gown tonight."


	22. Think of Me

The worst of the winter storms were over, although spring was still a hope for the future. The breakers of the Atlantic were modest compared to those crashing over the end of the pier with abandon during the harshest part of the season.

Looking back, Erik realizes how foolish it was to argue with Christine that sunlit day when he last ventured to this place, one of the few in his life he felt inextricably bound to – the air cold and brisk, but the sky the clearest of blues, with barely a breath of wind. Whatever powers there might be controlling the universe, Christine Daae had the uncanny ability to bend them to her needs when it suited her. However long it would take, he realized at some point he would stop questioning her judgment and put his own fears behind him.

The little family had walked to the end of the pier, each of them bundled in their warmest clothes – Erik and Gustave both conceding to having the ear flaps down on their woolen hats, Christine tucked into her deep blue cashmere cloak, a matching scarf covering her head.

Erik carried a linen bag, laden with rocks gathered from the beach, prepared to weigh down the small casket holding Belle's remains, now cradled in Christine's arms. Gustave held a small wreath of carnations bound with a pink ribbon.

The ceremony had been simple, they sang a hymn Erik wrote for Christine and Gustave, adding his baritone to their sopranos. The power of their combined voices translated their grief into a prayer even the shore birds attended to – their sharp cries silent, so only the quiet waves accompanied their song.

_Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu_

_Qui tollis peccata mundi_

_Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem_

_Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu_

_Qui tollis peccata mundi_

_Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem_

_Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei_

_Qui tollis peccata mundi_

_Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem_

_(Dona eis requiem)_

_Sempiternam_

_(Dona eis requiem)_

_Sempiternam_

_Sempiternam_

They each kissed the casket before Christine placed it inside the bag. Erik secured the makeshift shroud with a piece of heavy cording and tossed it into the sea.

Only a month ago.

The meeting today was about a more joyous experience, his wedding to Christine. Both Rudolph and Nadir grumbled at his choice of meeting place when he asked each of them to meet him there, but acquiesced when he said he would explain once there.

"So this is the way you treat your friend – a man who was born and raised in a land of desert and heat," Nadir says, pounding gloved hands on his upper arms and stomping his feet.

"Mazandaran Province is neither desert nor hot – do not exaggerate your discomfort," Erik replies. "This is the place where you re-entered my life and saved my son."

Nadir nods. "One of those mystical moments Allah often blesses us with."

"This is also where we buried the baby."

The Daroga nods. "I wondered. The urgency for me to get credentials to perform your marriage vanished. You hinting at a child…then nothing."

"There were murmurings and rumors, she was having clothing altered…but Christine and I chose to keep our own counsel…we barely knew of her existence and then she was gone. No point in giving rise to casual gossip."

"You still do not give people enough credit – support would have been there for both of you."

"Perhaps – I felt it better to allow her her own time…make her own decisions."

"She is well?"

"She is Christine." He shrugs, a small smile curving his lips.

"So – you chose to bring me out here to discuss the wedding. Why here?"

"It is the holiest place in the world for me."

"I can understand that, but…"

"Turn around."

Approaching them, clutching his heavy wool coat to his slim body, is Maestro Rudolph, who raises his hand in greeting. His deep-set eyes squint at the two men, a small frown accentuating already down-turned lips. "Mr. Y and…I do not believe I know your friend, except by sight."

Erik observes the two men, who could be brothers if one was only observing physical traits. Nadir, although older and somewhat shorter and heavier, bore the same hooked nose and tanned skin. Dark eyes, like molten chocolate, wiry dark hair tinged with streaks of silver identify both men to be of Semitic descent. Only by their hats could one possibly identify one as Jew, the other Muslim, if so inclined. Rudolf with his fedora. Nadir with his astrakhan. Blood from the same ancestral father.

"I met…for lack of a better word…Nadir many years ago in Russia. I was a vagabond musician and he was sheriff of Mazandaran – a province in Persia – in service to the shah. He encouraged me to meet the shah and join his court."

The conductor folds his arms, cocks his head and purses his lips. A quirked eyebrow and a curt nod encourage Erik to continue.

Nadir rests his elbows on the railing of the pier, rolls his eyes and focuses on the ocean.

"My Persian friend is displeased with opening up this old can of worms, but I feel you must know why I brought both of you into this obviously uncomfortable location."

"Erik, must you make everything into such a drama?" Nadir barks, turning to Rudolph. "I brought Erik back to Persia where he, unfortunately, became a prisoner of sorts."

"I assume you were unaware this would be his fate? Having little experience with royalty of any sort myself, I can, however, imagine a noble first finding delight with an artist, then tossing him aside."

"Much like Salieri and Mozart," Erik suggests.

"Yes, I suppose that might be an example of my thinking."

Nadir turns to face the other men, now resting his back against the rails, folding his hands over his stomach. "He designed and built a palace and was treated as a slave. Beloved and hated. The negative passion finally overrode the admiration. The palace was completed and Erik became a threat. I brought him there, then helped him escape." Looking Erik full on, he continues, "There, you see, plain and simple language."

"But not nearly as colorful a telling," Erik smirks.

"It is freezing out here, I suggest once you have satisfied this bit of theater..."

Rudolph's chuckle interrupts Nadir's rant. "That is quite a story – I am certain there is more to it and would certainly be interested in hearing more – however…"

"He also helped my son die a painless death."

Several blinks of the conductor's dark eyes. "I see. This is a far more sensitive relationship and situation than I was imagining. Old friends, yes, a deep bond. I can see that now." Rudolph opens his palms. "Stlll, I am confused. What does this have to do with me, other than to provide an audience?"

"Last year – the end of the season – Nadir reappeared in my life and saved Gustave from drowning."

"Go on."

"I brought you here because this is where that happened. This is also the place where Christine and I buried our expected child who did not survive the pregnancy."

"I am sorry," Rudolph says. "I was not aware of why Madame Daae put off her rehearsals. It was such a pleasure to see her the other afternoon – to hear her glorious voice. I only wish the modern music our dancers enjoy was more worthy of her gifts."

"Thank you," Erik says. "As you know we are planning our wedding and Nadir is to be the officiant. Gustave…all of our family…would very much like for you to participate in the wedding – playing the piano with him on violin in a duet."

"He mentioned that."

"He told his mother and me that you were hesitant for family reasons."

"You assumed it was because of me?" Nadir says. "That is why you arranged this meeting? Merde, Erik, have you learned nothing? I am becoming used to your insults again, but why bring Rudolph into this?"

"I was not concerned about you. I wanted Rudolph to know _he_ did not have to be concerned about _you_."

"You believed I was hesitant because of Nadir, is it?" Rudolph asks. "Yes, that would make sense based on what I have told you of my life and some of the challenges my family and I have faced both in Europe and here."

"Partly that, my aim, however, was to thank both of you for your contributions to my life and the life of my family. Nadir giving me my son – you, Rudolph teaching that son, but also giving my Christine music again. Something I tried to do this past month – having lessons and reviewing past arias, but it was your working with her – choosing such lovely music for her to perform – that brought her back from her deep sorrow."

"You are saying thank you – acknowledging you are not all powerful?" Nadir says.

"Yes, if you must put it so bluntly."

"I am honored – I had no idea," Nadir bows slightly.

Erik groans. "You are certainly acting the petulant child today. Why the mockery?"

"You have insulted both Rudolph and myself be assuming we would not behave ourselves without your intercession,"Nadir says. "He is simply too polite to say so."

A small smile appears on Rudolph's face. "Your friendship is something quite special. I often wish there was someone in my life I could speak with honestly, without worrying about decorum."

"So you are not insulted?"

"At first I was somewhat miffed – until I realized Mr. Y…"

"Erik."

"Until I realized _Erik_ was actually showing me a sign of respect. In other circumstances – and, assuredly, there have been other similar circumstances – my presence would simply be excused – a family relative would perform, or there would be no music. That, or I would be treated as a servant, entering and leaving by the back door once my services were no longer needed."

"I see," Nadir says. "I suppose there have been times when my presence was not required for one reason or another."

"We have all been excluded for various reasons, I suspect," Erik adds

"What is it you want from me?"

"To play a duet with Gustave and to be a member of the wedding party, such as it will be. Christine is a strong woman, but the loss of our child came on the heels of other events…the near death of Gustave, moving here from her home. There are few here she is close to. One person is you – her new friend. She wants you to be a part of the wedding."

"I thought I might be intruding on your family," Rudolph says. "This is not the norm for me. When Gustave asked me to play with him, I was not certain he had your permission."

"You will find that Erik seldom acts within the norms of society."

"You see, I invited Nadir to validate my character to you."

"So we are of one mind?" Erik asks. "Rudolph will provide us with his music and Nadir will perform the ceremony?"

Both men nod and the three exchange handshakes.

"Good," Erik laughs. "I was concerned I might have to throw one or both of you over the railings into the sea."

Rudolph bursts out in laughter as Nadir shakes his fist at Erik.

"Now, now – no violence," Erik says, waving his fingers in Nadir's face. "I see my two loves approaching. They will both be so happy that this matter has been settled. Christine insisted on coming here – understanding that my temper might get the best of me if I botched up my presentation."

"You are a lucky man once again," Nadir says. "Had they not been walking toward us, you might have found yourself swimming for shore."

"Yes," Erik says. "I considered that might happen." Placing an arm over a shoulder of each man, Erik says. "If you would, please meet us at the restaurant. You both deserve a hot luncheon at the very least. I should like to have a moment here with Christine and Gustave. We shall join you shortly."

Nodding to Rudolph, the daroga says, "And just like that, we are dismissed."

"I do not think…"

"Just another bit of humor, Maestro." Patting the taller man, lightly on his shoulder, he says, "Christine, Gustave, we shall see you at the restaurant. I shall order tea for your return."

Gustave offers a salute to the two men, while Christine, confused, looks askance at Erik. "Of course, some of their Earl Grey would be lovely." As they move from earshot, she asks, "Why are they leaving? Why did you just not arrange the meeting for the restaurant, instead of having us all come out here?"

"I wanted them to know how much you and Gustave mean to me – so I brought them to the place closest to my heart."

"And did they agree, as I felt they would wherever you might have asked them?" Wrapping her arms around him, she presses a kiss to his cheek. .

"Yes, you were correct."

"Papa Y, you say that all the time." Gustave joins in the hug.

"This does feel good and right, I must say. Having Belle involved."

Without a word, in unison, they turn to look past the pier out to the Atlantic. The gray waves restless, but still mild, even as the wind begins to pick up. A few whitecaps appear and the family cuddles closer together – each with their own thoughts.

Erik breaks the silence. "There is so much sorrow attached to this place – I wanted to make it someplace happy. And, surprisingly it was – thanks to Nadir and his memory of the past and his ability to ridicule me. I believe Rudolph actually laughed…if not, he smiled."

"Such a solemn man," Christine agrees.

"So you are not upset?"

"No," Christine says. "There is very little I can stay annoyed with you about – your intentions are always so good. This was good for all of us, I would say."

"Is the Maestro going to play the duet with me?" Gustave asks.

"He is indeed."

"Can we go now? It is cold and I am hungry."

"Yes, go on ahead – your mother and I will be right behind you."

Gustave takes off leaving his parent behind.

"Be careful," Erik calls out. "The boards are damp."

Gustave waves a hand over his head, heels nearing hitting his bottom as he charges back toward the beach.

Christine turns one more time to gaze out at the sea. "Your papa and I are getting married, little girl. We wanted to be certain you knew. I hope you and your grand pappa have met in heaven. He will take perfect care of you."

The couple stand a moment longer before Christine puts her arm through Erik's. "There will never be a day we shall not think of her, but now it is time for us to concentrate on the future."

"The future. I should like to focus on that – you, Gustave…"

"Another baby?"

"If we are so blessed," Erik says, kissing her forehead. "I should not mind trying in any event."

Christine laughs. "Yes, trying has become my favorite pastime – even before singing."

"Come, let us have our tea," Eriks says, leading her back to the boardwalk. "Perhaps Rudolph would like to rehearse with Gustave for a few hours after luncheon."


	23. Let Your Fantasies Unwind

Let Your Fantasies Unwind

"It has been a while since we visited our private rendezvous," Christine giggles as Erik escorts her through the door of the Eyrie.

Although full of light thanks to the skylights and windows that reach from one end of the long room to the other. The separate rooms are partitioned off with none having walls to the ceiling, with the exception of the bedroom suite Erik created years ago in wishful anticipation of Christine's return.

Despite the sunlight filtering in, the room has an unused feel and the vague odor of must and mildew built up along the edges where glass meets wood and the snow settled for days at a time before melting.

"The room certainly misses activity," Erik says, walking to a few of the automatons, removing the drop cloths covering them. "I used to spend entire days at a time here, seldom leaving, even to eat."

The movement of a cloud outside the window clears the sky for a random ray of sunshine to fall on the now empty six foot case where the mannequin was housed. "What did you do with her?" Christine asks.

"Dismantled." Erik strides over to the case and draws the heavy brocade drape over the glass door. "I should have removed this as well."

"Why? It is a beautiful piece of workmanship. I am certain you would be able to find another use for it."

"My dear, this case would always be a reminder...to both of us…of my…"

"Your what? Loneliness? Love? Grief?"

"Lust? Obsession? Foolishness?"

"Now you insult me."

"You are being ridiculous. The first mannequin you saw had you faint – it terrified you." He pushes the case over to a dark corner, pausing to gaze at it one more time before turning back and returning to the light in the room.

"Shocked was more like it – when you pulled the curtain and she fell forward, the blood rushed from my head and I fainted."

"Not afraid?"

"The entire experience was strange, but, no, not afraid," she says, walking over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You forget I have had ten years to look back and review the events of that time."

"Yet, when you first came to this room, you did not wish to see the automaton."

"True enough – I sensed you did not want me to see her."

"It, not she. It." He takes her hand, leading her to the piano. "I would take her hand, just as I did yours right now and bring her here, to this spot. A wave of my hand could adjust her stance, how she held her head and arms, but I could not make her sing or talk or be you."

"I am sorry. I understand loneliness, Erik – I had my father and when he died, I wished I could have had a substitute. "

"When I was a boy, my mother's dog, Sasha, was my only friend. When she was killed, I wanted to die, too. After that I swore I would not love another living being, because that being could die. This was not terribly difficult, no one wanted to be close to me, so I began creating dolls – sometimes just a rag, but a companion."

"The bride at that Palais?"

"I worked for months on her – trying to get her just right. It never dawned on me you would ever want to be with me, so I would have conversations with her I could not have with you."

"But then we did talk – after that day, we became friends."

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

"I will be wearing the wedding gown you created for her."

"You. I designed it for you."

"Yes, I understand, but you just said you never expected me to be your companion."

"Are you having second thoughts?"

"No, you silly."

"Then what?"

"Did you design clothing for this automaton?"

Erik frowns. "Well, yes, of course."

"A large wardrobe?"

"Modest – a few gowns."

"Modest by your standards might mean a hundred or more," she smirks, pressing a hand to his chest. "May I see them?"

"Um."

"What?"

"They are…um…not exactly the type of dresses you are accustomed to wearing." His voice stiffens along with his posture as he draws away from her to sort through the sheet music on top of the piano.

"Perhaps I would like to experiment with something new. You must have had some sort of vision of how you wanted me to be garbed."

"Um."

Christine laughs, taking the music from his hands and putting the tidied sheets out of his grasp. "Now I really demand to see these gowns. I suspect I might like them quite a lot."

"You are not the automaton."

"But you imagined her to be me," she counters. "I should like to see that image."

"You are determined to make me look and feel foolish." The papers gone, his hands begin to twitch, having no outlet for his discomfort.

"No, I want to look stunning and different. I know how I feel when we make love – I should like a dress that reflects that." Holding her arms out, displaying the yards of organza and lace, she says, "Do you really believe this is what I would choose had I a choice in terms of fashion? Layers upon layers of fabric, which does not begin to include the undergarment. Trust me, this is not comfortable."

"Why would you think any of the gowns would serve that purpose?"

"From your response to my request," she says. "Please. Consider them to be costumes for me to wear when I sing with the orchestra…the modern songs."

"I am not certain I would like you to be seen in public gowned in such a way."

"Is that so?" she teases him – her tone low and seductive.

The Christine he often fantasized about. The model for the gowns. The one night they had together, fed his fantasies over the ten years they were apart. Now that they were together, in the privacy of their room, she was even more sensual than he imagined. "Yes."

"Well, then, what about in private. Just us." Pressing herself into his body, lifting her face so only inches separate them. "I demand you show me."

"Very well." Taking her hand again, he leads her to a small room she recalls him saying was where he slept when staying at the Eyrie. He opens the door, flipping the switch on a sconce just inside the room.

Unlike the luxurious room they shared for their trysts – this room has no skylight. The one tall window draped with black velvet – the single bed, hardly more than a cot, is also covered with a black duvet. An upright piano holds a candelabra with a dozen candles melted halfway down.

"This reminds me of the tunnels beneath the Opera House. At least you were sleeping in a bed, not that godforsaken coffin."

"Yes, well, even I have to admit the coffin was a bit much." Closing the door behind them, he turns on an electric lamp, casting a golden glow to the room. Much of the light absorbed in the uniform darkness of the fabrics, but pleasing, nonetheless.

"Why a coffin?"

"In the early days I was displayed in a casket as part of my act, it became my bed as well. Javert – the gypsy master found it amusing."

"What a horrible thing to do to a child."

"Javert was a clever man and I learned from him – much of it most would consider evil, negative at best."

"Still, why the coffin?"

"I became used to the sensation of being surrounded and felt safe. When I created the lake house, I bought a more elaborate casket, with the satin pillowing. When I suffered my night terrors, being enclosed in such a way, I could not do harm to myself."

"So the practical along with the elaboration on your darkness fantasies?"

"The darkness of my soul is very real, Christine," he says. "Never doubt that. It is only through you I am acquiring some grace in my life."

"So this room was a place of solace?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say that. Despite the comforts of the bedroom in my hotel suite, when I was able to sleep, I got the most rest here." Pulling the chair away from the desk, he invites her to sit down.

"I can understand that," she replies, settling herself on the round-backed chair, surprisingly comfortable for being all wood, with no pillows or fabric. "You worked in here, too?"

Erik nods as he walks to an armoire tucked into the corner farthest from the door. "Not exactly an organ," he says, waving a hand at the small piano, "but serviceable. I wrote Love Never Dies in this room."

"Enough of your stalling…present me with some of the fashions you created for my alter ego."

Swallowing his trepidations of what she might think, he opens the armoire and removes a dress of gold and black lame – strapless and, from all appearances, form fitting. No lace, no organza, nary a ribbon or covered button to be seen.

Christine's eyes widen, she stands up and takes the garment from him and holds it up to herself. "Are there any mirrors here?"

"Just in the other bedroom – your room."

"I must try this on." With that, she pushes past him leaving him to stand waiting with trepidation for a reaction he has no ability to know. Christine was far more complex than he ever realized. Her return might bring damnation or bliss. In either case, he feels completely at her mercy.

The time passes both too slowly and too fast. His fingers demand he move or do something, but he is welded to the spot in the middle of the dark room, unable to consider any other option than Christine be totally disgusted with him – proving Meg correct about him ruining her as a woman. No longer an opera diva, but a chanteuse, dressed in glitter, her body as much part of the act as her voice.

When she reappears in the doorway, he is certain his heart will stop beating. He does not believe how close he came when creating the mannequin to the real woman. The dress clings to her body, perhaps requiring a stitch here and there, but otherwise perfect. Her hair released from its pins and combs, the curls falling loose down her back and over her shoulders. A faint hint of jasmine fills the air – a more exotic scent than her usual choices.

"What do you think?" She makes a turn, until facing him with a brilliant smile lighting her face.

He holds up his hand and returns to the armoire to retrieve an elegantly carved jewelry box. Setting it down on the piano, he opens the box and removes a necklace of braided gold centered by pear cut topaz. Stepping behind her, he fixes the necklace. "There…perfect."

"Oh, Erik, I feel…I cannot explain how I feel. Sensual, beautiful…free," she giggles, throwing her arms around his neck. "So very free – not bound up in the trappings of society's approval or disapproval."

"You are not reviled by how I chose to remember you, to keep your image close?"

Kissing him lightly on the lips, she twirls away, her hands smoothing the gown over her hips and thighs. Considering the question, she tilts her head. "Would it surprise you if I said no?"

"A little, I must admit," he says. "There was so much about you I did not know – the woman you are with me…well, there are times I am mildly shocked."

"You thought me pure and virginal?" she asks with a tilt of her head.

"You were until I tainted you."

"Tainted, never," she says, as she opens the hooks down the side of the gown. "Awakened is more the truth. My voice, my mind, my body." The dress slides from her body to the floor, leaving her standing naked in front of him, only the necklace remains.

His breath hitches. Whatever he imagined Christine to be, she is so much more – constantly surprising him. What a fool he was to have left her. How grateful he is to his own obsession to have connived to bring her here to him.

"You are far too overdressed, my dear man," she says, striding toward him, addressing the removal his clothing, piece by piece. With his assistance the task takes little time and soon his nakedness equals hers.

"Better?"

"Much better. I see you are prepared to ravish me." Taking his already engorged member in her hand, ghosting her thumb around the glans.

"It would seem you are the one doing the ravishing," he hisses, sucking in his breath as she kneels in front of him to take him into her mouth. Pressing his hands on her shoulders, his knees weaken when she begins massaging his sac. "This is too much…you…"

Pulling away, she leans back on her heels, putting her hands on her hips. "Too much? Me? What?"

"You…your needs. I must attend to your needs," he mumbles, reaching his hand out to her. "Come, to the bed – allow me to love you."

Accepting his hand, she stands up and pokes him on the chest. "You go to the bed and lie down and I will finish what I started."

"But…"

"But, what – you can pleasure me, but I cannot pleasure you?"

"I…"

"Get onto that bed, now."

The sight of a naked woman with an elegant necklace, hands on luscious hips ordering him around has him chuckle. He bows his head. "Of course, I am yours to command."

"I am pleased you understand."

Pulling the duvet down, he reclines on the white Egyptian cotton sheets. "Is this correct?"

"It is," she says, joining him on the small bed, sitting on her heels next to him to resume her ministrations.

A broad grin crosses face smiling as he grips the bedclothes with his long fingers. Could his fantasy really be taking place? Try as he might, it is impossible for him to simply lie still. Every instinct inside him, demands he not allow himself to be so vulnerable – so truly naked. Christine willing to play the role of the automaton come to life. How could she know? Despite the fact their lovemaking was something enjoyed for months, this was something beyond that. Still she was not shocked or angry or disgusted.

"I cannot – this is too much, he says, lifting his head from the pillow.

"Stop fighting me," she says, continuing to stroke his length with one hand, the other toying with his pubic hair. "There is nothing wrong." She glances down at him to make her point. "Your own body is telling both of us, there is nothing wrong. What were your words? _Help me make the music of the night."_

His golden eyes meet her aquamarine – bright and seductive. Her rosebud lips turned up in what could only be called a wicked grin. "Turning my own words against me?" Perhaps it was all right. If Christine says so, it must be so. Falling back on the pillow, he says, "I surrender – do with me what you will."

"Thank you, I shall," she says, before running her tongue the length of him.

"Ah, Christine."

"Yes?"

"Nothing…just ah, Christine."


	24. Your Fears Are Far Behind You

Christine looks up from sewing the seams of her wedding dress the head seamstress marked for her with pins. The gown had been let out while her body was changing during her pregnancy, now, however, she has lost weight and the silk and lace confection required additional altering. She removes her wire-rimmed glasses – and rubs the bridge of her nose. A smile creases her face – in recollection of the first time she put them on in front of Erik.

"_Eyeglasses?" he said. That was all, just "eyeglasses."_

"_Yes, for many years now."_

"_Will there ever be a day when you do not reveal another part of yourself I had no idea existed?"_

"_Nearsightedness is not some major revelation."_

"_In your eyes perhaps." Realizing his joke, he laughed. "Your eyes. Get the jest."_

"_Have you been indulging?" Her laughter joining with his._

"_Only in _looking_ at you." His laughter rings out again. _

"_You are quite out of control, Mr. Y. and making me feel quite self-conscious."_

"_Oh, my dearest, Christine, can you not _see_ I only speak from love." At that point he was bent over with his foolishness. An Erik so unfamiliar to her, but so reminiscent of Gustave, she could not help but join him in appreciating his silliness. Something she was certain was new in his life._

They have much to learn about one another. Moments such as those make her even more certain this is the right choice for her – for all of them.

Elyse offered to do the work, but Christine uses the task to help her heal from the loss of the baby. There is comfort in performing the repetitive stitching – each one identical to the one before – careful not to pull the thread too tight or leave it too loose. When the thread became too short, the knot is hidden under the existing stitches. Then the needle would be threaded again, measuring the fine white silk from her nose to the tip of her extended arm and biting it, the touch of moisture sufficient to allow passage through the eye without too great a struggle.

What was the biblical quote? _"It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God!" _Of course, this was not meant to be literal. The Eye of the Needle was said to be a gate in Jerusalem camels could not pass through unless it was stooped and the baggage of the wealthy merchant removed. Either way, she could understand the truth of the saying, having been in the company and living with people of great wealth these past ten years. Their self-righteousness often superseded the homilies given by the priests at Mass.

Erik was a man of wealth, as she discovered…not just now, but long before he took to living under the Opera House. Much of it acquired while he was in Persia – thanks to the jewels he received in payment for his work – or so he told her. The 20,000 francs he received from the Managers was put away or invested, much of it going into building Phantasma.

One night when she was sewing she mentioned the phrase. He laughed and said that it was not money that would prevent his entry through the pearly gates. When asked for an explanation, his eyes focused on some distant place only he could see – the amber appearing black…his entire visage darkened. "For a while, I was the monster the vicomte accused me of being."

When pressed, he just smiled…a twisted smile. "If I told you, you would leave me and I do not believe I could bear that."

"I will never leave you," she insisted.

"That is what you say now," he replied. "Can we just not move forward with our lives and not continue bringing up the past?"

She let the topic drop. The events of the night of Don Juan Triumphant gave her a clue to the answer. In his rage and madness that night, he likely would have killed Raoul. The presence of the lasso suggested this was his tool. Buquet died at his hand – not directly, but by means Erik created for those who ventured to close to his underground house. He certainly cried no tears for the man.

For that matter, neither did she or any of the other ballet girls mourn for the master of the flies. Buquet was a vile and predatory man. Most of the dancers felt his hand on them at one time or another.

Murder was Erik's sin, of that she was certain.

If that were the case, could she forgive him? Was it her place to forgive? Did he even wish to be forgiven?

Yet something within him prevented him killing Raoul or Meg, for that matter. Had her kiss changed him to that extent? He seemed to have paid a penance – first locking himself away from the world. How horrible must that have been. Even now – the room of black was the place he went for comfort…or absolution.

Part of what attracted her to him was the sense of danger. Every part of him was seductive – even the ruined face. Erik was surprised by her actions the night before – donning the gown created for the automaton – her replica, she imagined. Having only seen the mannequin that donned this gown before her – she imagined the face of this creation was hers, as well.

If he was confused, she was more so. Playing a role…no, it was more than that. Once again he reached inside her soul and revealed another part of herself, she was hardly aware of. Accepting his fantasy about the automaton – becoming a living doll – shocked her sensibilities. Donning the gold lame, touched something inside her. However intense and experimental their sexual relations were, this was new, strange and completely enthralling. Raw.

Now, when working on another gown first worn by another of Erik's creations, she wonders what else might she tap into. Recalling that night so long ago, her mind goes to the second descent to the 5th basement. The path was more familiar – using that route for her lessons had her know the feel of the stones beneath her feet and the location of many of the traps. They seemed to fly down the stairs.

When Erik told her to put on the gown, she did not understand. "We are to be wed. You must have a proper gown – not the dress of a serving girl.

"I am not marrying you – not like this, in any event. I have not betrothed myself to you or any man." A lie, but one she felt necessary. This Erik was terrifying – more so even than the time she first removed the mask from his face.

Yet, when he grabbed the mannequin, removing the gown then tossing the dummy to one side, she understood he meant it.

"I cannot reach the hooks…"

Throwing off the shroud, Erik's nimble fingers made fast work of undoing the cinnamon and black Aminta dress, turning away, not attempting to examine her in her corset and chemise. Just the command. "Put the gown on – it secures in the front."

How could a dress make such a change in a person, but, whereby, in her earlier meetings with Erik, he was always in control. Not now. Now he exposed his own vulnerabilities. It all began that night. The dress gave her power. As with everything else in their relationship, he bettered her – drew out traits she never dreamed she might possess.

She had to admit that a part of her – the Lutheran baptized part, learned as a child about make believe and how statues to not have power – a holdover from the Reformation – mocking the Catholic dependency upon praying to their saints for this or that. It was simply wrong and craven – a sin against the first commandment.

However, Christine loved the cathedrals she and her father visited and thought the statues beautiful and understood how having an image to speak to made prayer easier. One could imagine the piece of art to be a friend, particularly if you had no "real" friends to share your life with.

Her first impression of the mannequin was one of shock, not fear. It was odd for a man to have an image of a living woman in his home dressed as a bride, certainly. Especially when it represented her. Then she remembered her saints. The whole mystical saint/angel element was integral to their relationship. How could he not want her present with him?

That he recreated the mannequin – more sophisticated, certainly – she took as a compliment. That he destroyed it, was his offering to her – he needed no false image to come before her. Was it a sacrilege to mock the commandment? She was certainly no god or goddess, but she is his love and he is hers. Who knows, had she been more creative, she might have reconstructed him – the piece of his cloak had to suffice…and the gown.

"Thank you, Raoul," she murmurs. "You shall never know what a changed person your former wife has become. I do not recognize myself. So many emotions and feelings I held back during our years together. So unfair to you – to both of us. As I look to this wedding day, I feel only great hope for the future, so different from the day we wed. You deserved more and better, but I had no choice. I was afraid – I had nothing, nowhere to go."

A knock on the door interrupts her reverie. Laying the dress on the ottoman in front of her chair, piercing the fabric where she completed her last stitch with the needle to mark her place, she rises and walks to the door.

"Who is it?"

"Nadir Kahn, Mme. Christine."

A frown of confusion crosses her brow which she converts immediately to a brilliant smile to open the door to the Persian. "M. Khan, good morning." She steps back to allow him passage into the sitting room. "Erik is at the Eyrie."

"Yes, I know – I wished to see you alone."

"Indeed. Well then, come in – I am very much so at the moment – both of my men involved in their personal affairs."

Nadir follows her into the room, taking a seat on the settee she offers him with a wave of her hand.

"Tea or coffee? I am relegated to tea for my voice, but I can offer you a lovely Turkish brew Erik discovered. Nothing seems to affect his voice. There is something superhuman about him and I often wonder if he is real."

"Tea is fine."

"Good, since it is right here." Removing the cozy from the pot, she pours him a cup. "Help yourself to sugar and cream and a cookie. I am still a novice at baking, but Gustave informed me that this batch was by far my best." With that she returns to the armchair, moving the gown once again to make more room for herself.

"Thank you," Nadir says, adding his usual 5 lumps, putting another 3 in the saucer for dipping. "I have a sweet tooth," he explains. "The cookies look delicious."

Christine watches quietly as he addresses the snack, her hands folded in her lap. The daroga is a handsome man – his face very different from Raoul's and what Erik's might be were he whole in that respect – European. The mystery of the East seemed to fill the entirely of Erik's friend from the past. Persia seemed such an exotic place to her. Much of her time lately has been spent reading books, particularly those with colored pictures of the land where the two men met.

"What can I do for you? I owe you my son's life, so there is little you might ask I would not agree to give you," she says.

"Seeing him…all of you happy and whole is gift enough," Nadir replies, his face flushing. "I actually came as a favor to Erik."

A lifted eyebrow and a tilted chin is her initial response.

When she did not offer a question, he continues, "Frankly, I told him he needed to discuss these concerns with you, but the fact that he even asked me to do something for him had me hesitant to refuse. I have not known him in recent years…perhaps 30, so what happened to him during that time is a mystery to me, but I did know him as a young man…a very young man…so completely unwise to the ways of women and romance and…"

Christine bestows a half smile on him, her green eyes sparkling.

"I am rambling," he says, wiping his brow with a handkerchief pulled from the breast pocket of his gray frock coat. "I told him this was a bad idea. I am not a man of words…particularly about…intimate subjects."

Unable to stifle the laugh bubbling inside any longer, she releases her amusement with a very unladylike guffaw.

The daroga's eyes widen at the sound, but soon adds his own chuckles to her now lyrical chortles.

"That poor man," she finally says, holding her stomach. "Such a proud and daunting figure in his black garb, coiffed hair and the elegant white mask, one would never assume there was a frightened little boy hiding behind the façade."

"Then I have no need to continue with my insights?"

"Your insights…no, but I would be interested to learn something of the world you introduced him to and, if I am correct in my understanding, helped him escape from."

Nadir relaxes into his seat on the settee, taking a bit of sugar dipped in the tea, before taking a sip. "I cannot tell you much of who he was before I met him in Russia – he was quite glib about being a magician – as if he simply sprang from the earth playing a violin and doing tricks with his voice."

"What can you tell me?" She, too, relaxes into her chair, pulling some of the rich fabric onto her lap, stroking the delicate silk with her delicate fingers.

"I convinced him to come with me to Persia – the shah was always looking for new talent. Little did I know then, that besides being a gifted musician, he was also an architect and…" his eyes like molten chocolate gave her a pained look.

"A criminal?" Her fingers tighten on the gown.

"Yes…that." Lowering his head, he turns his body away from her. "I should not be telling you any of this."

"A murderer?" The calm with which she asks him this question, the answer to which she has already assumed, surprises her. Having already decided Erik killed other men, not just one, but likely many. How many she did not know – was murder something you could do so often you become numb to the act? What sort of inner death of your own could prompt committing the act over and over?

Nadir responds with a curt nod.

"But he stopped."

Another nod.

"Why?"

"I asked him to. He relieved my son from his pain – gave him a peaceful death. The shah was planning to execute him – the palace was designed and built…Erik knew too much." Nadir shrugs. "Or he was simply bored with him – one could never tell. In any event, Erik was to die."

"But you could not allow that."

"No, I could not," Nadir says. "I brought him to that place. He took care of my son – I had to help him, so I did."

"With conditions," Christine offers.

"Yes. He promised to only kill if his own life was in danger," Nadir says.

"Even then, although he came close – with Buquet, who died in a trap, and Piangi, who recovered…and, of course, Raoul – he did not break his promise to you."

"Yes, I learned that before I left Paris myself."

"Thank you for your courage. I am certain you had no idea how I might respond to someone telling me the man I would be marrying in less than a week was a murderer." Her tone light, almost giddy. Where was this sense of lightness coming from? The daroga confirmed her worst fears. Or was that her worst fear about Erik. In her heart she knew the blackness of his soul was created from the most evil of acts. Nadir merely confirmed her knowledge. Her fear was he had not stopped at some point – the reawakening of the devil haunting him brought him to kill again…or want to kill. It was she who was responsible for that.

Nadir's eyes narrowed. "You appear to have known."

"A suspicion."

"It does not appear to matter."

"He punishes himself. But, of course it matters – what matters more is he stopped…a very long time ago."

"The opera house? The vicomte?"

"No one died…at least by Erik's hand – Buquet died in a trap…and deserved it."

"Raoul wanted to kill Erik – encouraged the entire troupe to support killing him – even me."

"Self-defense." Lifting the dress, she shakes it out and places it over her lap. "I accused him of deceiving me, when, in truth, I betrayed him as well. All was resolved that night."

"You are certain?"

Holding up the gown in front of her for him to see, she says, "This is the gown he created for me to wear all those years ago. I shall wear it for our wedding." Putting it aside, she rises from her chair. "I must excuse myself, M. Khan, I am to meet Erik and Gustave in the restaurant for luncheon."

Nadir puts his cup down and stands up, straightening his clothes. "Of course, I have overstayed my visit."

"Not at all, you are most welcome in our home at any time," she says. "You are a good friend who took on a difficult task. I thank you for that."

"If there is anything else…"

"I think I shall take anything else up with Erik," she laughs. "Would you care to join us for our meal?"

"Hmmm, no. You should have a pleasant meal. I fear my appearance would bring to mind Erik's request I visit you and spoil everyone's appetite."

"Makes sense," she says, walking him to the door. As he passes in front of her, she rests a hand on his shoulder and presses a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you for loving him. He had no one before you – how horrible that must have been."

"Now he has you."

"Yes. Me, our son, you and many, many others. I believe his sins have finally been forgiven."

"Many of them at least. One never knows what Allah has in store."

"True enough. We shall have to hope for the best, for all of us."

With a nod of agreement, the Persian touches his hat, signaling good-bye and turns to leave.

Christine watches him walk down the hall for a moment before closing the door. Once alone in the apartment, she checks the room. The gown is hung in the armoire, sewing gear put away. Tea things gathered and put in the kitchen.

Pausing in front of the ornate mirror hanging over the parson's table next to the armoire, she pinches her cheeks and bites her lips for color. The revelations of the past hour impressed no physical changes as far as she could determine. Would Erik know? Of course he would, he wanted her to know. Did he suspect she knew, then? Likely, he would not have risked sending the daroga on such a mission had he not at least suspected. Was she as certain Erik's past was of no matter as she suggested?

Sighing deeply, letting the thought process. A smile crosses her face. She is as certain as she needs to be to love him and to marry him. The future might bring other questions, particularly from Gustave. For now, her heart is at peace with her choice. The ormolu clock chimes the hour. If she is to relay that information to her betrothed, she must stop mulling the issue and join him and their son for luncheon. Strong as he is, his trust in her love is fragile and she does not wish him to worry – not now. Not ever, if possible.

Tucking a curl behind her ear, she drapes her cashmere cape over her shoulders and leaves the apartment, locking the door behind her. With a light step, she makes her way to the elevator, humming one of the new songs Maestro Rudolph has given her to learn. The time for pondering is over. Life goes on. If not entirely normal – suitable for her and her family. Pappa would be pleased, she thinks.


	25. Love Is Yours

Love Is Yours

**(This is the final chapter of this story. It seems appropriate. I published my first chapter of my first fan fic on 4/20/18 – so it's an anniversary of sorts. This is my 5****th**** multi-chapter – 3 are POTO, 2 LND. If you have liked this, please check out my Gift stories, beginning with A Gift from the Past. Am going to try to have a new story next week, but have to see how it will go. Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing and the support.)**

"Are you awake?" Christine whispers, not wanting to rouse Erik if he is indeed still asleep. Despite his assurances of having more rest sleeping with her than quite possibly in his entire life, she is still concerned at the fits and starts that describe his slumber.

The sun has barely risen. This is her favorite part of the day, watching the blazing orb rise over the water. Today the cerulean sky is cloudless…a scene she doubts she could ever grow tired of. This morning is not as pleasant as some – the events of the previous night's festivities left her with something of a headache…too much champagne…and staying up later than she has become accustomed to.

Once she begins performing with the orchestra, her schedule will shift once again and these mornings will be few and far between – the nighttime will once again be her active time of the day, harkening back to her days at that Palais Garnier. Coney Island offers entertainment for both day and night timers – although Phantasma does appeal more to the latter.

At the moment, however, morning is her time of day and this day being the most significant of any in her past. She is to be wed to her Angel of Music.

"No," he mumbles, flopping over onto his back.

"So you are talking in your sleep?"

"Were that only so. The way I feel can hardly be called awake." Lifting himself onto his elbow, his head resting on one hand, the fingers of the other play with her russet curls. "I feel as though I could sleep a hundred years like Rip Van Winkle and still need a nap. Whatever possessed our so-called friends to have a shower…is that not what they called the raucous combination of spicy food, champagne and music so cacophonous I am certain everyone's eardrums are permanently damaged?"

"Meg said it was traditional to hold showers – a showering of gifts on a couple soon to be married to be certain they have everything necessary to begin their married life."

"Thus the assorted pots and pans and serving platters?"

Christine laughs, and snuggles close to him, nuzzling his ear. "We shall be able to host any number of dinner parties. I do think, however, those who observed the duplications will make things right."

"I do not want our employees to be spending their hard earned money on gifts for our household."

"They wanted to do it – you would be insulting them if you said you did not want their gifts."

Erik holds up the duvet, examining her before draping it back over both of them. Gathering her close. "No nightgown?"

"I might say the same for you," she remarks, eyeing the discarded clothing lying over or next to the furniture. "It would appear we both succumbed to the excessive amounts of alcohol provided in celebration."

"My God," he barks, sitting straight up, eyes frantically searching the room. "Where is Gustave? Did we abandon him in our inebriation and…lust?"

"No, silly man," she giggles. "However out of sorts I might be, I shall always be a mother. Miss Fleck was kind enough to offer to take him last night. She will bring him here to dress for the wedding and to assist me."

"That is a relief, I shudder to think what he might think about…us…this."

"I suspect he has some idea – I noticed he was perusing your library for anatomy books."

"I do not know if I should be annoyed or relieved."

"I, for one, would prefer he have at least a modicum of knowledge before he begins asking questions."

"You realize we are not supposed to even see one another the day of our wedding, much less…"

"Much less what? You are not supposed to see me in my gown. I never heard anything about being naked or enjoying our conjugal rights before the legalities are completed?"

"You truly are a wanton woman, Christine Daae." Relaxing back onto the pillows, he leans into her. "Well, we have pretty much scoffed in the face of social morality so far – why not on our wedding day?"

His mouth finds hers, lips slightly parted, turning his head slightly, so as not to press more of his distorted lip against her rosebud lips than might be comfortable.

For her turn, she shifts her own mouth to take his lower lip into hers, nipping gently at the soft cushiony flesh.

A low moan escapes his throat, "Who would have thought my mouth would be so seductive to you or so erotic for me?"

"Even with your mask, I could always see them and wondered what it would feel like to kiss you."

"You wanted to kiss me – even then? Those early days?"

"It was your voice that drew me, of course, but I was fascinated with where the sound came from. Your mouth fascinated me – from the beginning."

"I have been in love with you my entire life. Ever since the day I first met you."*

"That is not your entire life – we would have met at our births and, well, Erik, you are a bit older than I am."

"A bit, she says, decades, but my life did not really start until I met you, so I can honestly say those words."

"I will better you then…as to when my love began."

"How so?"

"When my father spoke of the Angel of Music – my love began. To have someone, some being in my life who would love music as I do – who would touch my soul as well as my heart."

"But I was not your Angel of Music."

"You most certainly were. How can you deny that?"

"I deceived you – you said that yourself – you gave your mind _blindly._"

"I said that? No," she exclaims, caressing his face with her finger tips. "Oh, Erik, I never meant…"

Pressing his hand against hers, he smiles, "But you did trust blindly – it gave me the hope, albeit foolish hope, that you could love me – as undeserving as I was."

"I remember now – it was a plea…for Raoul…for our lives."

"Yes."

"Then I kissed you."

"Twice – you kissed me twice and it was not blindly – not blindly at all. I shall never forget."

"I do love you…and I did then – or realized it then. At first, though, I did not trust the Lord works in mysterious ways. Who was I to say how an angel would appear to me?"

"There are stories in other than Christian faiths how the Buddha would appear as a grotesque monster to test the acolyte on how he would treat someone who appeared to be not only not a Buddha, but someone who could cause great harm. It was the wise person who helped the so-called monster."

"There is the story of the Good Samaritan in the Bible," Christine adds. "It is about a traveler who is stripped of clothing, beaten, and left half dead alongside the road. First a priest and then a Levite comes by, but both avoid the man. Finally, a Samaritan happens upon the traveler. Samaritans and Jews despised each other, but the Samaritan helps the injured man."

"I suppose that the message is about judgment."

"You might have died because of the lack of judgment by many, including myself."

"Christine, my Christine – it is time we put all of that to rest," Erik says, pulling her on top of him. "Here we are lying in bed naked and we are speaking of religion – is this what marriage does to people?"

"I say it makes us free to do whatever we wish with our time – it that means discussing the Bible or Buddhism, then so be it."

"In truth, my love, I should like to take advantage of our particular circumstances in a more corporal way."

"I can attest nothing I do now is blindly. So I must ask…you do not think it bad luck…our seeing one another?"

"I would venture to say it is a little too late for that to be a concern. Perhaps we should create our own traditions," he chuckles, running his hand over her hips, squeezing her buttock. "Sight is a wonderful thing."

"The ceremony is not for a few hours yet, that is true." She presses herself against him, finding his member ready, waiting for her. "How fortunate we did not don our nightclothes. So much more time to sin."

In light of their conversation this morning, there is something almost mystical about this moment – if Erik were to ever experience a sense of God or heaven or simply being blessed…this is the time. A wave of peace washes over him, something unknown until now, as he watches Christine, on the arm of a dashing Dr. Gangle, preceded by Miss Fleck in becoming pale pink tulle, walk down an aisle created by adjusting the chairs and tables in the banquet hall. The room with its floor to ceiling windows chosen to accommodate the ceremony, dinner and, with a few more table adjustments once dinner was over, a small dance floor. Squelch beams as he stands proudly beside him, the burly body straining in the black tuxedo all the men in the wedding party wear.

Such an odd family, yet so right. Well, this is where I live.**

Happiness in his life was rare – most often experienced as a child with his beloved Sasha or when he was engaged in music or immersed in his architectural drawings. Those fragments of time could help him forget the rejection of his mother. In some very unusual way, Christine's love and acceptance of him – his face, but more significantly the sins of his life – the self-hatred he carried with him, even as he attempted to atone – finds him healing. Certainly not healed entirely, if that should ever happen. If anyone understood evil, it was he. Recollections of certain acts continued to haunt him in his dreams, yet, even those were becoming fewer and fewer. The comfort of Christine's body next to him each night calms and sooths his torments.

There is no relationship with god for him to call upon. Christine, his angel, is the closest thing to heaven he suspects he will ever reach. He will do his best to live up to her belief in him and his redemption.

The gown he designed for her, the fantasy of her as his bride all those years ago, is coming to fruition. Style determined adjustments to the gown – the train is gone, the skirt layered, but without the overabundant petticoats, the ruffles on the sleeves removed, otherwise she maintained the design. How generous of her to keep it at all. He is not certain he would have been so gracious. No, that is not true – he would not be so gracious. The dress would have been burned at the first opportunity. What a miracle this woman is.

A crown of white rosebuds with just a hint of veiling topped her curls, worn loose down her back, again reminiscent of days past. Her bouquet of white roses and anemones complete the bridal ensemble. Just before leaving the apartment, he gifted her with necklace with a single square aquamarine – the color of her eyes, set in a bed of small white diamonds.

Forcing his eyes away from her, he watches his son…their son…play his grandfather's violin in duet with Maestro Rudolph. The boy, looking, thankfully, so much like his mother, so handsome in a junior version of the tails the older men are wearing, concentrates on his music, lips pursed in determination, letting the notes soar – at one with his instrument. Another gift from Christine.

"Who would have thought," he murmurs to himself.

"Not I," Nadir replies, his words a whisper, eyes front, the glimmer of a smile on his face.

"Harrumph." The word contradicted by the smile breaking across Erik's face as Christine takes the hand he holds out to her. "My dearest love."

"Are you two squabbling again?" she asks, stepping up on the raised platform, decorated with an arbor of yet more white roses, bowing in thanks to Dr. Gangle as she removes her hand from his arm to take her place next to Erik.

"Never," they respond in unison.

"I see," she laughs. "Since that is the case, shall we make our union legal?"

"If not blessed…"

"Oh, we are blessed, my love, never doubt that."

Nadir clears his throat, "Shall we? Erik would you care to speak your vows?"

"We shall sing our vows…in duet," Christine says, turning to Gustave, who watches his parents, a toothy, absent one, grin on his face. When she nods at him, he responds with the introduction to Erik's composition.

Facing one another, holding hands, their eyes locked, the couple sings:

_Love, love changes everything_

_Hands and faces, earth and sky_

_Love, love changes everything_

_How you live and how you die_

_All the rules we made are broken_

_Yes love, love changes everyone_

_Live or perish in its flame_

_Love will never never let you be the same_

_Love will never never let you be the same***_

Erik attempt to kiss Christine, is interrupted by the daroga, once again clearing his throat. "I must ask if you take one another as husband and wife."

"We do."

"Oh, well, then, by the power vested in me by the State of New York, I pronounce you…husband and wife," he concludes. "_Now_ you may kiss the bride…"

His words are unnecessary.

Gustave and Rudolph join their instruments again to play a raucous Mendelssohn. The guests burst out in applause and cheers, while tossing handsful of rice at the laughing couple.

"Much better than the last time I wore this dress."

"Infinitely better, although I am not certain how enamored I am at having small pellets thrown at me."

"It means good fortune and fertility," Nadir says, rushing past them, off the platform to escape the mock rainstorm.

"Happy?" Erik asks his bride.

"Supremely," she answers, touching her forehead to his. "You?"

"More than I ever hoped for," he says.

"I love you."

"I finally believe you."

"Well, then, I suggest we celebrate…our friends await us."

"Friends. Wife. Son. Blessed."

"Yes, we are," she says, taking his hand.

"Yes, we are."

*Tumbler writing prompt #58 "I have been in love with you my entire life. Ever since the day I first met you." Thank you helloitskrisha.

**Tumblr writing prompt #68 "Well, this is where I live." Thank you monster-bait.

***Abbreviated lyrics from "Love Changes Everything" by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Charles Hart and Don Black


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